storm within skin
by Mia-Zeklos
Summary: "She's been given a choice this time. A choice and no obligation or prophecy to hold her back and while it's not freedom, it's life. Life, right now, is all she has." (In which Cersei runs, Jaime waits out the war, one way or another, life continues, and - one way or another - they both find their way back home.)
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: This idea has been floating around my mind for a while and I was hesitant about launching this fic into the outside world so early on into the writing process, but I have a steady outline now, so hopefully all will be smooth from here. The basic premise is a 'what-if' scenario, the reasoning behind it more thoroughly explained when we get into Jaime's POV in the next chapter. Sadly, I can't use the same tags here as I do on AO3, but the most major warnings are canon-typical violence, dubious consent (for Euron and Cersei's entire relationship, essentially) and slow burn and heavier angst; also of the sort that you'd expect from the canon characterisation. The twins's canon relationships from s8 will be featured to a degree, but I want to make it perfectly clear (just in case) that the aforementioned twins together is the endgame of this. What I mainly wanted from this fic was to explore them when they're away from each other under extreme circumstances and what conclusions/mindsets that separation could lead them to, so hopefully I'll manage that much.**

**Hope you guys enjoy it and feedback is always welcome!**

* * *

She's never been so alone in her life.

In a way, Cersei supposes, it's a good thing. If this truly is where it all ends, then she needs no audience for it; no guards to smother her with their presence as the world crumbles around her. There's nowhere left to run, nothing – _no one,_ not anymore, not without Jaime – left to save and Cersei drags herself to the most open part of the castle, stills and looks up at the ashy clouds above. If the Targaryen bitch had wanted her to see her city dying, she might as well get one last reminder of why she'd done it. Dragonfire is quicker when compared to suffocation, if she has to guess. Cersei wraps her arms around herself (it won't make a difference if she tries to protect the baby, it never ever does, but she's not dying _after_ losing another child, she's _not _and it doesn't matter – she's dying all the same – but it's what her world has narrowed down to), positions herself right under the open sky, and waits.

And gets forcibly pulled away back into the castle a heartbeat later.

"No." The protest sounds more breathless and bewildered than angry, but Cersei still claws frantically at the fingers wrapped around her wrist before her other hand gets captured too. She looks up, wide eyes meeting Euron's before he starts dragging her bodily towards the dungeons without another word. The audacity of it is staggering; more so than her home of over two decades burning down like a match in the wind. "Let me _go_—"

"The whole Keep is either crumbling or on fire," he says. At first she thinks he hasn't heard her at all, except— it's not that he doesn't listen, it's that he doesn't understand. It's survival that matters the most to him even if it means leaving everything else behind and while she hadn't expected to be included in those plans, now that she is, refusal is as obvious an option as the realisation that she doesn't have much of a choice anymore. The only thing worse than a choiceless death is a choiceless life, she's always thought, but this – strange as it is – feels somehow less bleak than the possible outcome of Stannis Baratheon's siege. Living means potential and potential means fighting back. Living means keeping her baby safe through the only way out she's got left. It had been too late for Tommen – she shudders when thinking about the consequences he'd have suffered even now that her son is dead and gone despite her best efforts – but she has a _choice_ now. A choice and no obligation or prophecy to hold her back and while it's not freedom, it's life. Life, right now, is all that must matter.

So when Euron Greyjoy leads her through yet another underground entrance right before it collapses behind their backs and points her towards one of the few ships still intact with the promise to help her climb up when she gets there, Cersei dives into the muddy waves of Blackwater Bay and swims for her life.

~.~

The next few months, in a way, manage to prove her right. It's humiliating, having to go around collecting the favours she'd peppered well into the Free Cities just in case she ever found herself precisely in this situation, but not quite as humiliating as sailing from port to port and still not being able to afford anything but the drab, colourless sacks of fabric that Ironborn women call clothes, and so she makes do. It's not like any disguise can make her truly unrecognisable to anyone who had ever met her in person – not with the lion pendant still adorning her neck, in any case, and she clings to it as stubbornly as she does to the red gown she'd left the Red Keep in. It wouldn't fit if she tried wearing it a few months down the line, but it would again, eventually, after the baby's arrival, and wherever it is that she's going, she refuses to give up what little finery she'd restored along the way. There are dignified ways to be a runaway, she's always believed, and if there's one thing she's got left, it's this.

The news coming from Westeros in the meantime are as unsurprising as they are welcome – Daenerys Targaryen had fallen shortly after her triumph and her murderer had been restrained, along with Tyrion. Despite her brother's devotion to his queen, it's not particularly shocking that he had been involved in the betrayal as well. She had seen it brimming out of every word he had spoken to her all those months ago when she had been standing above the city gates and it had taken a city dying for him to realise what a mistake he had made, but Cersei can't bring herself to wring any satisfaction out of it. Carelessness isn't quite the same as hate and she hadn't seen the destruction coming; not in the scale that it had ended up with. Even though she can't see for herself now and she had watched as it had happened, it's a difficult thing to believe – King's Landing, _gone_. If it hadn't been for the baby, she would have preferred to die with it. What would be the point of anything else? She barely remembers what it feels like to not wear a crown regardless of the meaning it holds and for over two years, she had been given no reason to believe that she would ever find it in herself to survive its loss.

And yet, she has one now. Far too many times to count, it's this particular thought that had kept her afloat through Euron's endless whims, the cluelessness of every step taken, the miserable affair of living on a ship for months; none of it had mattered when her mind had wandered back to the life growing inside her. She'd been haunted by the urgency of making things right before the time comes and now that the time is _here_, she's at least partially satisfied with the results of her effort.

They're finally on land again and the house she's in is pitifully small compared to the birthing room she would have had someone set up back in the Red Keep, but it's enough, she concludes as she stares out through the window and the scattered stars in the clear sky above her head. There's an infinity of worse directions for things to possibly go in and what little she has is more than enough once she pushes the thought of her twin and her crown out of her mind. Barring her midwife – not a proper one, just one of her array of handmaidens who had been lucky enough to be serving the Iron Fleet instead of her when the city had fallen – she's entirely alone, but it's just as well. Being surrounded by people had never done her any favours before and although the girl is thoroughly useless beyond her panicked litany of, "It's all right, Your Grace," Cersei is grateful to be left with no one else here. _It could have been worse_. For months on end, ever since Euron Greyjoy had dragged her out of her home and towards salvation, the prospect of it being worse had become somewhat of a prayer, too; a prayer to herself to bite her tongue and bide her time.

"Your Grace," the girl picks up again after yet another stifled hiss. The pains had started a while ago and her gaze keeps straying to the stars above every time she tries to anchor herself into her body, but there's no avoiding it now; not anymore. "I think you should—"

"Yes," Cersei

**END OF DAY EIGHT**

agrees despite herself; drags her body up into a half-sitting position and throws the covers off before tensing up as much as she can despite her exhaustion. She's been through this before, of course, and with each and every instance it feels brand new. She had been only a girl the first time and she had been right to be scared – the birth had brought her nothing but a fortnight of happiness before the tragedy had struck and a long, terrible day of Robert's anger – not at her, not just yet – and his arms wrapped around her along with an endless stream of, 'Quiet, quiet now,' until she had stopped sobbing and screaming and clawing at his arms like a frightened animal. She had loved him for it back then. Worse still, she suspects she might have loved him for it now, had he been here, and Cersei pushes the thought away as quickly as it had come. No use for that now. She had made her choices and they had brought her here and for once, she looks forwards to what it's going to bring her. "Yes, I think so too."

It's the sight of the very same stars that gets her through the night. Oh, it hurts – it always does, always has, but she's too ecstatic to truly mind – and it's the kind of repetitive, all-consuming pain that could drive nearly anyone mad, but she holds on as well as she can; talks and shouts and, finally, screams through the pain until one of the servants at hand scurries away to find any real midwife that this wretched town might have while she clutches at the hand of her handmaiden for dear life. The girl won't stop fretting, clearly terrified of having to do this alone – she had only dressed her before, Cersei remembers, and had never been remotely prepared for this kind of responsibility. Why she hadn't made a run for it in the first village they had stopped in is still mystifying, but she's altogether too exhausted to keep clinging to the conviction that danger hides in everyone. It's much easier to let herself believe that perhaps just this time, she'd surrounded herself with people she can trust and it's enough to make her just a little more forgiving at the next, "It's all right, Your Grace" for the night.

It all passes in a blur as it had before; a blur of pain and yearning and blood and, at long last, the distant beginnings of joy and relief as the midwife leans closer to her, squeezes her free hand in encouragement as Cersei fights to keep her eyes open. She's so tired, her desperate focus on the sky outside her window faltering dangerously as she clings to the world around her, but if she falls asleep now, she's not sure when she'll wake up. She's not sure if she'll wake up at all, come to think of it, not with how thoroughly exhausted she feels and how draining every breath had been for weeks on end, and it's unacceptable – this can't possibly happen now. She isn't her mother. She refuses to be nothing but a shimmering ghost in her child's life; a story for other people to twist and pile fantasies on and for her child to suffer over for a lifetime just because she couldn't take the exhaustion and Cersei spits out the cloth in her mouth, bites down on her lower lip hard enough to break skin and keeps herself afloat by grasping the pain with a kind of desperation she had never known before.

It's only when the first rays of gold and crimson spill over the edge of the sky that she hears that first cry; piercing and sudden and easily the most beautiful sound in the world. There are tears streaming down the sides of her face and into her hair and laughter is bubbling somewhere at the back of her throat and she reaches out blindly, trembling arms outstretched in a wordless demand.

"The baby," she manages at last, frowning in displeasure when her midwife laughs, leaning over the still-crying bundle in her arms and stepping closer to Cersei's side.

"You needn't worry, dear. He's perfectly healthy."

"He." _A boy._ It hadn't mattered in the slightest, but just knowing makes it a little more real – more so than the pain or her determination had rendered it – and when she feels his weight as he's placed in her arms, every single piece of her is blissfully quiet for the first time in an eternity. The women are still wandering around the room, preparing the crib, a bath, a thousand little things that she's going to need now, but none of it reaches her ears as she presses her son close to her chest and quietly vows to never have to let go again; not like she had before. "It's just you and me now," she whispers, body still wracked by the odd pained shiver, and he's so impossibly tiny and yet big enough to fill the entire world. The sun steals its way into the room bit by bit and she's never been less interested in sleep in her life.

~.~

"—need to speak to her now."

"Her Grace is resting."

"Then wake her." Despite her handmaiden's protests, Euron sounds incredulous at being denied. "Or don't. I can do it myself."

"My Lord, I would not—"

The door swings open and Cersei forces herself to open her eyes for good instead of succumbing to the drifting on and off that had carried her through the better part of a day, only to be met with a rather predictable sight: the girl standing by the door, eyes wide and anxious, and Euron Greyjoy's expectant smile as he nears her. She sits up enough to be able to reach into the crib and hand her sleeping son over to him, tensing up as he examines him carefully. There's not much to see – babies don't look much like anyone, fortunately, she's found from experience, and the wide green eyes staring back at him could easily be her own – but there's no telling what the sight would make him do. She's not sure she's strong enough to stand yet, but she can be if it gets to that, she knows. There isn't much she isn't capable of now.

"His name is Loren." It's a statement, not a suggestion, and Euron nods. She'd had months to think it through and it had been a name fit for a Lannister prince. It'll be a perfect fit for him now, too, she had always told herself; she would make sure of it. It's the name of kings. Jaime had been the one to suggest it in one of the few times they had been bold enough to start thinking of names and the thought makes something in her chest twist painfully now – _he'll never get to hold him_. Perhaps this is their punishment, after all, or perhaps he's just collateral damage in the gods's effort to punish _her_. Perhaps this is what she deserves – to never once see him welcome his own child into the world.

"Loren." Euron tests the name out and lifts him even closer, grinning when the disturbance wakes the baby in his arms. "He's loud."

"He's hungry." She reaches out to take him in her own arms again, careful but decisive. Joffrey had been loud too, even in his best days, and Robert hadn't particularly loved him for it. "Give him to me."

He obeys, but doesn't stray from the side of the bed. "He _should_ be loud; he's a prince." She doesn't have it in her to correct him – not a prince; not anymore or, perhaps, not _yet_ – and Euron brushes his fingers over her son's forehead and then directs his attention to her, his kiss almost bruising in its rough celebration. He doesn't seem to require much of a response from her and it's just as well; she isn't quite

**END OF DAY TWO**

up to entertaining anybody just yet. In time, that might come too, she assumes – life will have to go on and they will have to set sail again eventually – but for now, she's happy when she's left alone again. It's not peace, not fully, but it doesn't have to be. Peace had never been on the table to begin with.

~.~

It takes her about a fortnight to realise that the aimless wandering from before isn't quite so aimless anymore. They leave the Free Cities behind once and for all and start circling back towards Westeros and – more specifically – towards the Iron Islands. Cersei isn't sure when they'd made the trip out of the Narrow Sea passage at all, but she can tell when they start sailing west. It's far more familiar, the harbours they pass by feeling more and more like the one she had grown up in such close proximity to and although they never come even close to the Rock, it's easy to see that Euron's scattered array of acquaintances that he can talk into all sorts of petty crimes grows more and more purposeful and selective until it's clear as day that he's building an army.

She refrains from bringing it up at first. It's none of her concern and the more support they have, the better; the thought of doing something of the sort had plagued her ever since her escape too and it's not precisely a surprise that he wants _something_ of what he'd had back too. On a surface level, nothing has changed. They still move from town to town and day to day without a roof over their heads save for the ship's cabins, the only tangible difference being Loren's presence. It's enough to change everything, of course – she feels less vulnerable now that her body is solely hers again, but far more so whenever she takes him outside with her or leaves him in someone else's hands for even half a day. Strangely enough, Euron seems to feel the same way – he'd gone to greater lengths to protect the child than she had imagined, even if it means keeping quiet about his existence to begin with, but it's easy to see why. He's protecting his legacy, after all, and with a burnt down fleet, a former queen and a son are a greater asset than he would otherwise have.

It's better than what she had imagined, significantly so, and he nearly drives her out of her mind on a daily basis all the same.

"If you keep dressing like this," he says one day while one of her servants drapes a new dress – _perfect for the baby_, the merchant had assured her when he had seen him cradled in her arms, _it unclasps in the front, see_ – over her body, "we're going to be robbed blind before we know it."

"I'm a Lannister." It serves as a reminder for her as much as it does for Euron, after all this time spent away from anyone who's aware of that fact apart from him. "Do you expect me to dress in rags? I'm not afraid."

"And you should be, My Queen." It's likely a habit at this point and it grates on her ears, but it's preferable to him using her name, she supposes. "Without a Queensguard to defend you—"

"I have managed so far, as you can see." She gives him her most pleasant smile – quite a feat given the circumstances, so it doesn't surprise her when it only makes him narrow his eyes at her. "And I have you, don't I?"

_That_ is enough to bring that insufferable grin back again. "Aye," he agrees, pulling her in by the hips until she's pressed flush against him, fingers digging into her skin despite the heavy silks she's drowning under. Cersei dismisses her handmaiden with a glance and turns her attention to him again just as his grasp snakes under her chin and he tilts her head up, the promise brushing against her ear. "That you do. Along with your bannermen, if you were to ever ask, I assume."

She carefully untangles herself from his grip, suddenly unable to take any contact at all. It's going to be a problem if he doesn't understand just how little she has now, but that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is being forced to realise it for herself once again, even as she tries to push down the flare of age-old ambition buried under the fear of asking for too much – she could take what she wants like she always has if she tries. It's the one thing in the world she's still sure of, even if, "They're my brother's bannermen now."

"If forced to choose between their Queen and the Imp, I wonder," Euron insists despite her apparent lack of enthusiasm, "where would they go? Who would they follow?"

"Me." There's no question about it. Not after the string of tremendous mistakes that Tyrion had made in such a short time and the victories she had managed to bring to her claim to the Throne before King's Landing had fallen. "I fail to see how it would be of any use. The Westerlands and all the Lords that inhabit them aren't enough to fight against five kingdoms. If I ever want them back, trying to make them fight for independence wouldn't be the way." _Not yet_, she thinks; it would take quite a while to gather the strength to do something of the sort, but she would manage it eventually; that much she knows.

"The Westerlands can wait." He's off-handed enough about it to make Cersei bristle and it's another thing she carefully bites back as he continues. It's her _home_ they are talking about and it's been so many years since she had last seen it; the last thing she wants is to _wait_. "It's quite a prospect; I'll give you that. But there might be something easier to gain back in the meantime. I've planted the seeds for it already, but an army rallying behind one leader would make it much easier."

It's enough of a promise to spike her interest, whether she'd like to admit it or not. Few things in her life had been more difficult than drifting in and out of sea with no real clue of where the next day would bring her and, given the amount of difficulties that they years past had offered her, it's a bold statement to make, but she can feel herself growing more and more restless by the day. It's understandable – contentment wouldn't be easy to achieve with the swift change of direction that her plans had taken – and unbearable all the same. Any change would be welcome, she thinks sometimes. It's yet another burst of reckless bravery with nothing else to back it up, but Cersei is ready to see where it might take her. "What would I be rallying them for?"

"A kingdom. Mine, to be precise." His grin grows wolfish and any spark of disappointment she might have felt is replaced by intrigue. "It _is_ just a pile of rocks, you know that much by now, but it's better than life at sea. It's enough to put a crown on your head." He's dangerously close again; so much so that she needs to look up to meet his gaze. It's enough to make her squirm, but her discomfort pales at the prospect he had just unfolded in front of her, even with all the traps that it holds. "Is this not what you truly want, My Queen?"

Titles and flattery or not, Cersei can see the proposition for what it is. It's always come down to this, she supposes, but at least she had been the one with the absolute power before; any marriage they would have entered would have made him a consort regardless of how well he tries to weave his way to a higher position. Here, it'll be offered to him on a plate and she's the one who'll have to fight her way up, just like always.

_Is this not what you truly want?_ Had he asked her all those months ago as the Red Keep had started crumbling around her, she would have denied it without an ounce of dishonesty. All she had wanted then had been another chance; another stolen hour breathing until she could break and remake herself into something entirely new, but still _living_.

The relative safety that anonymity and the open sea had granted her had changed things – or rather, had brought them back to the surface again – and she can feel hunger lifting its ugly head somewhere deep inside her, terrible and glorious and insatiable as ever. Cersei knows it well by now; welcomes it with open arms as it spreads through her like wildfire. "Yes," she breathes before giving it another moment's thought. What is there to think about? For once, he's right. Anything is better than being stuck in the in-between forever and whatever the risk is, she's willing to take it. "Yes, it is."

"Good. You wear it much better than my niece ever could." He brushes a loose strand of hair away from her eyes, as if imagining the sight of it already. "It'll be ours within the month if it's up to me; within the year if your army needs it."

_I have no army,_ Cersei wants to protest like she had done for months on end now, _I'm not your Queen anymore_, but all of a sudden, it's started feeling like false modesty; like denying a truth that she can claim if she would only reach out for it. And if she's dared to reach that far once again, then there's nothing stopping her from making another step closer to the edge. Her entire life had been an endless chase just like this one – a step closer and then another, and another after that until her prize is safely cradled in her arms. She'd missed it, truth be told, and it's an excellent distraction of the constant reminder of the future waiting for her.

"And what of the Westerlands, then?"

She can wait, of course – it's another thing she's excels at – but there are few images more tempting than the thought of claiming her home back; of fighting tooth and nail for what she's owed. It's not just about the castle, either. She's safe behind the walls of the Rock; safe as she had never been anywhere else. Looking for peace feels like chasing shadows, but Cersei had become rather good at keeping shadows on a tight leash when it comes to the life she builds for herself. If safety and a kingdom and a home aren't enough of an incentive, she thinks bitterly, then surely family must be – if she's to ever see her brothers again, then what opportunity could be better than placing herself in Casterly Rock and daring them to come take it from her? She's done far worse before and been forgiven for it. It's certainly one way to go about it.

His next words, when they come, only help her resolution settle in deep, roots spreading down to every hidden notch of her soul; to every bit of ambition she had commanded into silence over the months of her exile.

"With time and enough men, I could build my fleet anew. It's nothing I haven't done before. And if you want your Rock back, you'll have all the ships in the world to take it."

If there had ever been a way to resist such an offer, Cersei thinks as she nods her assent, she's forgotten it a long time ago. Come to think of it, she's not quite sure she's ever known it to begin with.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: Fair warning: Jaime spends a fair bit of this fic angsting because he thinks everything is about him, secretly. Another fair warning: Most things are, in fact, about him, but Cersei's on the other end of the world, so he can't know that just yet. They'll get there. Eventually.**

**The reason why I don't focus quite so much on Jaime's relationship with Brienne (in this chapter or any of his next ones) is that, without wanting to sound rude, there's nothing remotely engaging I can see about it. It's a plot point and little else; I fully realise that, but there's not much to be done about it.**

* * *

The day King's Landing falls, Jaime almost finishes the job he should have taken care of years ago and strangles the Stark boy in his sleep.

Refraining from the temptation is not particularly easy – it's all he can do to stop himself from tracking him down as soon as the news reach gods-forgotten place and he listens as the raven scroll is read out instead, frozen in place as the messenger drones on and on. The city gate had fallen and the Queen had surrendered, but Daenerys Targaryen had burned it all the same. The survivors, few and far in-between, had told the tale of its destruction, as well as the inevitable result. She had wanted to move on to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, of course, but by nightfall on the same day, Jon Snow had ended the idea in its cradle, as well as her reign and her life. He'd admitted to it, too, and ended up imprisoned for his treason as well as Jaime's own idiot brother (it's too little too late, but it still makes him proud to hear of him standing his ground, dangerous as it may be) and that's as far as the news go.

"What of the Queen?" When he finally brings himself to speak, it's barely audible, but it makes the boy stop mid-sentence anyway, tensing under his inescapable glare.

"There's been no word from her, milord."

"No word?" He can't quite believe it. "She's either alive or she isn't."

"The last time anyone saw her was the surrender, milord, I haven't been told—"

"What kind of fucking messenger can't tell me that much?"

"Easy, now," someone close by warns as the boy cowers away from him and Jaime forces his fists to unclench, his body to retreat back into the shadows of the yard. Everyone's eyes are on him as it is and he can't stand the attention; not now. He doesn't move for the rest of the day, long after the crowd has dispensed, long after the news had started sinking in and the night had fallen all around him, the wind growing cold enough to remove all sensation from any piece of exposed skin and the more he stays – the more the image that the message had made drills itself further into his mind – the less real it feels.

Cersei couldn't possibly be dead, of course. Despite the destruction and the fire and the rubble, surely someone would have found her already – Tyrion, if no one else. Surely he would have _looked_ before finally turning on his Queen. Surely she hadn't been allowed to die, especially not alone without him, without any kind of spectacle following in her death's wake. Surely not after—

And that brings him back to the Stark boy.

_If you want to live,_ he had said, the same serene tone of voice he used for every world-shifting revelation he made, _you'll have to wait for now._ When Jaime had told him that he had no interest in surviving this war, he had amended his message somewhat.

"You might if it means that she'll survive too. She won't, otherwise, just so you know. And neither will you."

"Why would you care?" _I tried to kill you, and she did nothing_. He hadn't brought himself to voice it, but he hadn't needed to, really; it had been clear as day.

"I don't. But there _is_ something..." He'd shaken his head then, as if to chase an image away. "You wouldn't understand."

Jaime hadn't even pretended to try. "Are you certain?"

"I always am."

He hadn't explained anything further and it's too late for him to do so now, seeing as he – along with his sisters – had headed for King's Landing as soon as the idea of making a makeshift council of Westerosi lords and deciding the country's future had been brought to the table. House Lannister has Tyrion to represent it, he'd supposed, and so he'd stayed instead, digging himself deeper and deeper into the conviction that none of this could have possibly _happened_.

Brienne is the one who finds him first and he's sure it's about time she departed too – whatever happens in King's Landing will decide the future of the realm, after all – even if she hadn't wanted to do it without a goodbye. It's so different from what he had been planning to do when it had been time to depart that he might have felt somewhat guilty if it hadn't been for the current circumstances, but as it is, he lets her put a hand on his shoulder, the gentle squeeze that follows the only acknowledgment he gets of the reality he's suddenly found himself in. After all, what could she possibly say? Coming from just about anyone, any kind of sympathy for his supposed grief would be a downright _lie_.

Gods, he needs Tyrion. If anyone would understand, it's him. He had tried to help, he'd tried so many times and when she'd finally listened, it hadn't made a difference at all. Why would it? She'd done too much damage already by that point and he had been stupid, so stupid to think that she could ever handle the consequences on her own.

"_There's no word from her_ doesn't mean _dead_," Brienne says at last, as if he hadn't talked himself into that exact piece of desperate hope back when he had first heard of that second dragon's death. Her tone is just neutral enough for him to be unable to tell what the hope in question makes her feel. "Chances are—"

"I know. She isn't dead." It's the first time he's spoken in what feels like an eternity and out of the corner of his eye, Jaime can see her eyebrows raise in an emotion somewhere between surprise, concern and – worst of all – pity. He can't bear to speak her name aloud; doesn't dare letting it slip out into the world just in case he never gets to say it again. He would prefer not to know when exactly he had spoken it for the very last time. _If she is dead, then so am I_. "She couldn't be. She wouldn't—"

_She wouldn't die without me._ It would make him sound like a lunatic, along with the _I would know if she'd died _that he had meant to say, but he doesn't have to elaborate – she understands.

"I doubt she had much of a choice."

There it is again – _pity_. Jaime can feel the fury rising inside him, directed towards every single soul in the world who still dares to breathe and at no one at all, all at the same time.

"She did." And she'd made the right one, from what he'd heard. She had done that much and it _still_ hadn't been enough and she can't possibly have done this to him. The image of her as she always is – brimming with emotion, brimming with fire, mind racing in countless different directions at once behind her bright eyes – is as real in his mind as his own hands in his field of vision; the idea of her _gone_ is so absurd that he has no choice but to refuse to entertain it. "I should have been there."

"And you would have died too."

_Died, too_, as if she's dead and buried already. Jaime's heart skips in its shallow, painful beats in his chest at the thought. "It doesn't matter." _It's never mattered, nothing else matters, I should have— _But it's too late now. _I should have never gone_.

"There's nothing you could have done."

That doesn't matter either, but it wouldn't be right to say it, he supposes; not to her, at least. There's plenty he could have done – been there despite everything. He could have returned, if nothing else, just to see her one last time, look into her eyes, have her face him again, hear her last words. Even now, it feels impossible – _last words_ implies that she's spoken them already and that he hadn't been there to hear. It's unfathomable. For all her lies and betrayals, this isn't a line Cersei would ever cross, he's certain of it. Out of all the ways to prove a point, daring to let herself die before him had surely never been an option.

Brienne shifts uncomfortably in her place and Jaime half-wonders if he's been talking all this time, mumbling convictions under his breath like a madman. It might be just the cold, too – it's getting progressively worse the more time he spends unmoving and he finally finds the strength to face her again.

"I suppose you must be going already."

"It really is, yes." She gets to her feet, straightening up as if she's bracing for something. He's not sure what she's expecting him to do, but it doesn't matter – he couldn't move if he tried. The frost in the air has taken root in every inch of his body, it seems, and nothing works like he wants it to. It might never do so again, he fears. "If there is anything—"

"Send Tyrion my best." _If I haven't abandoned him to his death too, that is_. It wouldn't be much of a surprise at this point. It's what he deserves, anyway, even if his brother does not. "Tell him it wouldn't hurt to send me a raven or two every now and again."

There's rather a lot she wants to say to him, that much is clear – how it's not Tyrion's fault that he's in prison or, if she's feeling resentful, how it's awfully petty to complain about his brother's nonexistent ravens when the ash still hadn't settled in King's Landing, but she keeps it to herself. It would make no difference either way – the thought of this scale of colossal destruction had terrified him once, years and years ago, and now that it's all dust, the world had collapsed to a pathetically tiny circle with him and his siblings in the middle, impossibly separated. It all feels so unbelievably small that it should be easy to reach out and touch them, keep them close, keep them safe like he always had, but he _can't_. It's too late and he has only stupid messenger boys to rely on and if _fucking Brandon Stark_ had lied to him—

But he hadn't. He couldn't have. Had he convinced him to go and get himself killed, it would have made far more sense, but there's no way the boy would like to keep him alive for longer than he'd been supposed to have. He could want to prolong his suffering, Jaime supposes, but it feels far too malevolent for someone quite so confusingly indifferent towards his general existence. It had to have been the truth. It's the only thing he can hold onto now and Jaime does so desperately until he can feel himself slipping away again, taking refuge in the safety of his own mind and the repetition he'd kept up for the entirety of today like a prayer or a hymn. _She's alive, she's alive, she's alive. She has to be_. When he closes his eyes, he can almost feel her skin under his fingertips, kept away from harm in his memory as she always is.

"I'll see you when I return," Brienne says and he nods, too numb to do anything else. _And when you do, this conversation might as well never have happened_. By then, more news would come, certainly – something would have proven him right and all his grief would have been in vain.

"Be safe," he calls out after her, then huffs out the desperate laughter stuck in his lungs. _Be safe_. For all his efforts to help his loved ones do just that, it's never made an ounce of difference. That particular thought, more than anything else, keeps him out in the cold for the rest of the night.

~.~

Weeks pass, and no one deigns to tell him a single thing about the only possibly-surviving members of his family until Jaime feels as if he might claw his eyes out in frustration. Tyrion and Cersei might as well have vanished into thin air for all the information he can get on them and he wanders through the northern forests in desperate search of something to occupy his time with, as much of a ghost as they might be. Tyrion is at least somewhat safe, especially when compared to their sister, but Cersei—

He only ever misses her in fragments - the burning determination setting her whole being aflame, the ceaseless ambition, endless hunger, the wicked glint in her green eyes, the sly curl of her mouth when she's being especially bold and, on his worst days, the scorching feeling of her mouth against his throat, the bite in her kisses, the way her body fits against his just right until he's lost in her. It's the only way. If he ever tries to mourn all of her, she'd consume him, he's sure; pull him under, drag him into the depths of her until they're whole again. It's a tempting prospect and one he's only resisted through the knowledge that Tyrion would have to lose him as well if he were to try and follow her into the dark. And it's not just that - there's his hope, still, damning and unshakeable just like Cersei herself. _If it had been her time to go that day, she wouldn't have left me behind,_ he reminds himself, and the world gains back a little of its meaning once more.

Eventually, change does come, although not as quickly as he had expected it to. He hadn't been entirely correct in his estimation, as it turns out. The morning the Starks return to Winterfell – just Sansa and her entourage, really; her bastard brother had been exiled to the Wall, Tyrion (alive and well and _free_; an achievement he'd always excelled at) had somehow managed to name Brandon their new king and Jaime isn't entirely clear on what had happened with Arya Stark – the soon-to-be-crowned Queen of the North receives a message, clutched in the hands of a nervous advisor. He keeps his voice low, but not low enough for the rest of the hall not to hear and certainly within earshot even in Jaime's own half-dark corner once he catches on to the name _Greyjoy_.

"—over fifty ships, all of them fully armed, and they're quite sure he has enough men to take Pyke too, once he reaches it."

"Are you certain?" Sansa Stark asks and something about the dread in her eyes feels awfully familiar; enough so for hope to start unfurling in his chest without him really allowing it. It's the sort of trepidation he'd seen in the eyes of anyone stepping too close to the Throne with news their Queen wouldn't like or a demand she could deem too great; the sort of trepidation that only Cersei ever breeds. He had missed seeing it too much for words.

"Quite, Your Grace."

"And he's doing it alone?"

"No, Your Grace. He has an army at his back, as I said, and—"

If Lady Stark is losing her patience, then there's only the barest hint of it on display, but her irritation pales in the face of everything else about her behaviour. She doesn't want to hear the answer, but has no choice but to ask, knowing what the truth could be, and Jaime's knuckles turn while around the edge of the table with the effort it's taking to keep himself seated instead of giving her any opportunity to remember that he's in the room at all. "What kind of army?"

"Ironborn for the most part; the ones who wanted him on their throne before." The man hesitates. "The bulk of it is from the Westerlands, however."

Sansa Stark's voice is cold and sharp as steel when she speaks again, as if she'd unknowingly arrived to the same conclusion as him. "Why would the Westerlands get involved in a conflict for the Iron Islands?"

Why, indeed? More fidgeting from the messenger, but Jaime can already tell what the answer will be; has always known, in a way, that if _she_ were alive, she wouldn't be able to keep quiet for more than a year. It's a generous estimation and it has definitely not been a year, but that's to be expected. His sister had never been too good at waiting when she could have something _now_ instead.

"The survivors are still too few for anyone to know for sure and there's no declaration of intent made as of yet, but there have been rumours— reports, to be more precise— that Cersei Lannister called them to her aid."

"Cersei Lannister is dead." But no, she isn't, _she isn't _and Jaime's shoulders shake silently, dry sobs stuck between relief and bitter satisfaction and disbelief trembling through his entire body at the confirmation. _Of course she isn't; I would have known_. All along, he had been right, but the news makes it all the clearer just how unconvinced he had been in his own resolution. He hadn't let grief take over, but had numbed himself down instead until every shred of feeling had drained out from his being and this is what a rebirth feels like, it must be; his blood is roaring in his ears, pumping through his veins with a ferocity he has felt in no battle before today. Hungry for anything else he can take from this, he redirects his attention to the conversation again, as inconsequential as it feels now.

"It was never confirmed, Your Grace, and as you said, there is no reason for the Westerlands to get involved in the Ironborn's fight for their home without someone to point them there. Greyjoy keeps speaking of the queen he means to crown alongside himself when they arrive. Few have seen her and fewer still have lived to tell the tale, but it is rather close, from what I gather – a small woman, not much Ironborn about her; gold of hair, with a lion crest woven on her chest. Lannister's men respond to her alone."

And oh, he can imagine it all too well. It's not just relief now – Jaime can feel the worst kind of excitement stir low in his stomach, insatiable and crude as it ever is at the thought of Cersei wielding her chaotic justice over foreign lords until they're terrorised into submission. He lowers his head and his beaming expression until all he can see are the miserable contents of his bowl, but nothing – not even Winterfell's unholy porridge or the pained grimace on the advisor's face or Sansa Stark's thoroughly unsettled expression – can mar this for him.

_There you are,_ he thinks, and for a moment, he's certain his twin will hear him, wherever she is now; whatever conquest she's leading. _You almost had me fooled there_.

But he had known already, of course; an inevitable promise they'd made each other too many times for him to remember them all. _She never would_.

~.~

The next few days pass in a blissful haze. It's funny, really, because he hasn't seen her – hasn't had any sort of confirmation that it _had_ been his sister and not someone clever seizing the opportunity to gain what she'd once had - and the news of her presence in the world still manage to change everything and shower it all in the sort of ecstatic, carefree joy he hasn't felt ever since the irreplaceable few days between Cersei's coronation and the day Bronn had dragged him to meet Tyrion in the dungeons. He feels as if he's sleepwalking; his aimless wandering from before gaining purpose as he tries to find out as much as he can.

It's another raven scroll, this time from Tyrion, that pulls him somewhat back on the ground again. After Brienne reads it, that is: the precious new details about the situation, insignificant as they are, make him smile before he can stifle his reaction despite the doubtlessly disastrous effect it'll all have on the realm. The Small Council tearing their collective hairs out in frustration at Cersei's hectic but effective ruling choices had always been rather entertaining and - now that they're on the opposite sides of a conflict - it's no less so, even if Brienne doesn't seem to agree and, judging by the tone of his letter, neither does Tyrion. Despite his displeasure, his relief shines through every frustrated, venom-filled word. It's a clipped, quick response to Jaime's plead for information and his grin only widens as he skims over it again.

_Pyke will fall within the fortnight; no question about it. Around two hundred ships and twenty thousand men with their forces combined. Every single Ironborn that Euron Greyjoy could find on his side and all of the Westerlands. You wouldn't believe the things our sweet sister has already talked them into. Or rather, you would - you know her far better than I do. Too late to try to negotiate anything, too late to stop them now with the forces we have. We might as well have lost Yara Greyjoy already._

He's not quite sure who _we_ is supposed to be this time – he's not going to war no matter what happens, not against her, Tyrion must know that perfectly well by now – but Brienne cuts in before he can figure it out, her frown deepening with every word. She's been different ever since coming back, the news of the attack on one of the Iron Island's outer regions following right after her arrival, but he hadn't made the connection until now. Chances are, of course, he might be imagining it all and perhaps something had happened in King's Landing to make her as quiet and thoughtful as she'd been ever since returning, but he hadn't dared to ask so far. Given the direction the conversation seems to be taking, he's not sure now is the time, either.

"Not even a year into our supposed new world, too."

Jaime shrugs, still keeping his eyes down, lest his irrational glee become more obvious. "My sister is not a patient woman."

"You think she's responsible for this?"

"I think she provided him with the men he needed and – even if she hasn't done anything about Casterly Rock yet – she's made sure to impose herself in their memory as the only Queen for them to follow and they did just that. It's not like there's much of a choice; it's either her or Tyrion and after his failure with the Daenerys Targaryen, they're not likely to take his side anytime soon. Why would they? If she wants the Westerlands, her claim is better. All our bannermen must have spoken to her already; in their eyes, she'll be the only heir to Tywin Lannister worth acknowledging until—" He catches himself just in time; it wouldn't do to make any potential departure sound like a given, "_unless_ I show up."

The image of her proving herself the way she had so many times already, in front of too many people to count, sends another bout of satisfaction rushing through him. It's addicting in the most unexpected way – he hadn't realised he'd been lacking it until it had resurfaced along with every single bit of Cersei's presence in his mind that he'd tried to shut away over the past couple of months. It's headier than any wine could ever be, and far sweeter and when he pushes Tyrion's scroll to the side – careful, ever so careful; he'd keep it forever if he can, with the information it holds – and starts writing out his response, the world seems to have narrowed down to a handful of people once more, only to expand right in front of him all over again, this time meant for them and them alone, just like he'd always promised her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes: In which Cersei enjoys the simple pleasures in life such as angst, making friends, and potential religious revelations.**

**On a more serious note: there are, despite the above carefree description, some parts of this chapter that could be potentially upsetting, but it's nothing not covered by the warnings at the start of the story. I tried to play around with some symbolism and foreshadowing in this one, which I don't really do often; hopefully it worked out at least somewhat. ;D**

* * *

Cersei sees herself in a mirror for the first time in months on the morning of her wedding.

She's not quite sure what she'd expected, really, but everything about her reflection feels _off _in a way she can't quite pinpoint. Her features seem even more pointed than before and her complexion is somewhat darker, hair even lighter than it is in its natural state. It's what weeks upon weeks under the unforgiving rays of the sun and its reflection in the sea will do to a person, no other way around it, but it's unsettling all the same – as if everything about her is sharper, exaggerated, more focused than before.

It fits the world around her, there's no doubt about that. The haunting, unreachable beauty of Pyke hadn't escaped her when she had first seen it under the first rays of the sun today, but absorbing it into herself so early on hadn't been particularly appealing. Her own eyes stare back at her from her reflection, darkened with tension and anxious trepidation, green as the moss that crawls up the sides of the castle and just as deep, the striking red of her gown and the gold of her hair setting her as far apart from everyone else in her surroundings as possible. Some bride she'll make. It's a good thing she's past caring, Cersei supposes, and a better thing still that the ritual will barely fit within the faith of the seven as it is. She'll have no one's cloak but her own wrapped around her shoulders ever again; she's marrying into that much freedom, at least.

Watching the battle up close as the final of the Iron Islands – as well as the Greyjoys's ancestral home – had been wrung out of their current _queen_'s hands had left her feeling content, if strangely empty. The last few months had been a whirlwind. Although she hadn't been anywhere near the Rock, they'd sailed to the Westerlands several times, in cities and towns and the smallest settlements imaginable and, bit by bit, Cersei had chipped away at the Six Kingdoms and the supposed power they held over the armies that had been hers by right. Not everyone had thought so, of course, but she had expected to be turned away far more times as it is; the few times it had happened, she had mostly been relieved that it hadn't been worse.

Still, three of the Lannister bannermen turning their backs on her (she had kept a careful tally, just in case) had been nothing when compared to the army she had gained through her efforts and eventually, the picture that Euron had painted for her back when they'd still been sailing a great distance away from the rest of Westeros had started unveiling itself in front of her eyes. It had culminated in Yara Greyjoy's death just this morning and the chaos that had followed when the Ironborn had faced the king they'd chosen for themselves years ago, and Cersei had watched it all from the shores of Pyke, under the shade her sails had thrown over the ship, the few soldiers who hadn't participated in the conquest in order to protect the fleet still at her back. She had taken Loren out with her – he was too young to understand anything at all just yet, but she would tell him of it one day; the conquest she had encouraged in his name, the first of many more to come. She had fought for the kingdom he would inherit before she'd even known him and the determination is even stronger now, curiously enough. She hadn't thought it possible.

The fell of the last shreds of Yara Greyjoy's control had been a glorious sight, only soured by her betrothed's attempt to drag her off with him as soon as Cersei had set foot on solid ground, and she had made her excuses on the grounds of requiring some semblance of preparation before the wedding. After all this time, she'd reasoned, does it truly matter whether the union takes place in the morning or by noon? Much to her dismay, her own reasoning had forced her to realise just how little time she'd given herself. It had brought her here – far away from the chambers that would be her own by tonight, in a room once inhabited by the last queen consort that the Iron Islands had had. Taking a final look at herself, Cersei's body forces itself out of her chair without her permission, bracing for the inevitable.

"Your Grace," her handmaiden rushes by her side before she'd had the chance to get far, still fussing over the details of the circlet of tangled thorns and flowers that would adorn her head before the coronation, "I wasn't done just yet. Your hair— if you'd like me to pull it back—"

"It's quite all right." There's not that much of it to pull back to begin with, but Cersei would have preferred to leave it be either way. Her new subjects won't take well to her as it is, she's sure, and even if she refuses to let go of all the other signs of her identity, trying to make herself look as refined as possible would doubtlessly only work against her. "I'm ready."

~.~

There's only one sept on Pyke – a half-derelict, windswept thing from millennia ago, with the twisted, grotesque shape of the Drowned God's vague image standing proudly in the middle of the seven-pointed star that the other statues form. According to Euron's story, it's the only leftover from the time when one of his distant predecessors as King of the Iron Islands had wed one of her own unfortunate ancient relatives and the Lannister princess in question had introduced him to the Faith of the Seven. Her conviction had been strong enough to convert him almost entirely, but in the end, he had insisted on merging their gods's presence in the same temple and for a while, a compromise had been reached.

It had ended up being more of a failure than a genuine connection between the two belief systems and this last memory of that era seems to be a fitting place for a similar union all those years later, Cersei thinks as she steps through the entrance. A few of her bannermen along with a Drowned Man and a number of local lords are the ones standing witness to it this time and she takes her time looking at each and every deity they're supposed to swear in front of just to avoid meeting anyone's eyes. It shouldn't be quite so difficult – she's done this before, after all, even if she hadn't been aware back then just how bleak her circumstances would soon become – but she's still relieved when she's finally standing in the centre too, the light of the sun filtering through the stained glass in a thousand different hues. _Never again_, she had sworn after Robert had finally spent his last breath, _never again unless I mean it, unless it's Jaime_, but once more, it's not a choice she can make. And why should it matter, truly? The gods had never been gentle with her; if she lies in their names just once more, why should she be punished for it? They'd shut their eyes and ears to her too many times for her to be afraid of the consequences and so she says her vows with all the conviction she can muster, not looking away from her soon-to-be-husband's eyes once she gathers the courage to face him.

There's no septon to prompt her this time, no cloak to be wrapped over her shoulders, thank the gods, and no ribbon to tie around their hands. Euron fumbles the order of the gods's names, or perhaps she does, but the words are out at least and Cersei soldiers on through the rest of it. He untangles the thorny wreath out of her hair with a few hard tugs and replaces it with a driftwood one, identical to his own if not for its size. She refuses to make the entire ordeal easier for him by lowering her head as he crowns her, and it's all for the best, really – she knows he likes her better when she's defiant.

~.~

Pyke's great hall is just big enough for a celebration an event the size of a wedding should induce and it turns out as loud and unrestrained as Cersei had expected. She's yet to see anything of the castle apart from several stray rooms and she can see the shadow of the Salt Throne on the dais behind her back – a large, dark, bulky thing that'll doubtlessly look even worse in daylight – but it wouldn't be a good idea to claim it before the Ironborn's newly returned king had. Everyone expects her to as it is, it's in their eyes; curiosity and a dash of fear and about twenty different kinds of hunger. It's in every toast in her honour (or in _their_ honour, or to the price's health – it's all the same, an excuse for everyone to drink themselves into oblivion, as if they'd needed one), in every cup pushed into her hand, every glance that measures her response. She accepts it all but refrains from doing anything but raising every goblet to her lips before putting it down. There's no need to experiment with whatever they're trying to feed her, she needs to keep her head clear for tonight as it is and to top it all off, it's dangerous with her still feeding Loren herself.

The later the hour grows, the more suffocating the great hall feels, with its dark walls and booming voices and the unbearable heat of the fire and Cersei gets to her feet as quietly as possible once she realises she's had enough. It's still enough to draw everyone's attention, the Ironborn's eyes settling on her from all corners, and she gives them all a smile and a rueful sigh, turning to her husband to explain.

"Loren must be needing me already. I'll have to attend to him before we retire for the night."

Euron nods, but grabs her by the wrist all the same to keep her in place when she makes to leave, voice barely lowered as he speaks. "Wait for me. The guards can show you the way."

Her smile is growing thinner by the second, she can feel. Robert's obvious resentment in front of his subjects had been humiliating, but he'd at least had the grace to let her come and go as she pleased unless he was having a particularly bad day. How foolish she had been, to think that being loved would be any less degrading. She had been surrounded by familiar faces back then, at least, and she'd always had—

But he's not here now. In the sea of strangers, all she can catch a glimpse of is her family's sigil on her soldiers's armour, and it's all Cersei needs to wring her arm out of his grip. "Of course, my love."

Still, once Loren is fed and she'd sung him to sleep in his nursery – songs she remembers from her childhood, ones that bring her just enough happiness for the rage and helplessness to take second place instead of poisoning her body and his in turn – she can't seem to get her feet to drag her to the king's chambers. Instead, she wanders off in exploration, just as she'd done during her first night in the Red Keep. It's her chambers that interest her the most and, along with the nursery, the rooms she'd been given end up being in the farthest separate tower of the castle, reachable by several rope bridges, a long, winding staircase and little else. That would have been suffocating too, she thinks, given how difficult it is to escape, but every thought of being caged leaves her mind once she enters trough the door and her eyes settle on the window. Everything else is rather impressive given the state of the rest of the castle, too – the enormous bed, the study in the corner, the several tables and daybeds and yet another door where she thinks she might discover a bath – but it's the window that catches her eye, wide enough to turn the entire living space into a balcony of its own.

_Here's another way out, then_. She doesn't give it a second thought before striding across the room and stepping over the sill, kicking off her shoes and bunching up her skirts in the process, just enough to be sure that her footing on the cliff outside is steady and it's not at all different from what she'd done when she had been a child with far too much energy to spend, encouraging – or encouraged by – her twin until they'd seen every inch of their home, regardless of how difficult it had been to achieve. The Rock had been endlessly fascinating to her for its nature; half-castle, half-wild, misshapen rocks that no one had dared to try and carve into submission.

Here, now, she gradually loosens her grip on both her new crown and her gown – it wouldn't do to ruin either of them, but it seems so inconsequential now – and Cersei leaves herself in the hands of the world around her. Even all those years later, keeping herself steady on the wet, slippery surface while still nearing the edge is easy as breathing. And breathe she does, finally, freer than she had felt in decades.

It had started raining earlier; an unmistakable summer storm in the midst of spring. Pyke is the perfect place to witness it, Cersei thinks – every time the sky cracks open with lightning, she can see the endless open sea below her boiling alive along with her, the pouring rain that soaks her to the bone despite the steel decorative plate woven into her dress and the wind catching in her hair, twisting it around her face in impossible knots. She can taste the waves on her lips every time she sees them crashing against the bottom of the cliffs hundreds of feet below her and the sight is enough to make her laugh, the sound drowned out as the storm's fury worsens around her. _Unreachable_. It's what she's always wanted, isn't it, being so distant, so high up that nothing, _nothing_ can touch her unless she reaches out to meet it. The prospect seems rather tempting now, when she sees how easy it would be. This is where she would be happiest, really, up here and down there, dead and alive and never, ever forced to swing between one terror into the next again. _Never_ _again_.

It feels almost like flying when she spreads her arms; almost like jumping and never having to land; almost like the Drowned God himself is watching her every move, keeping her steady when she falters. It's chaotic and terrible, nothing like the stoic, indifferent deities she's so used to resenting, and she gulps the sensation down to the last bit.

No one would ever find her here if she were to stay, she knows. No one would know whether she'd sunk or swam or soared or crawled somewhere just around the corner and onto the next impossibly high cliff. No one would think to look, whether on her wedding night or for years and years after the sea or stone or thunder had made her part of them, and Cersei finally understands. _What is dead may never die_.

~.~

It's the sun that wakes her; the sun that makes her realise that she'd fallen asleep to begin with. The cliff is gone and so is the storm and this isn't the room she'd seen last night, but rather her marriage bed, it would seem – it's even more spacious, clearly meant for more than one person and of that isn't enough of a give away, then the sight of her new husband asleep next to her certainly is. There's no trace of the storm she'd endured and Cersei would have been convinced that she'd dreamt all of it if it hadn't been for the dampness of her half-thorn dress and the familiar, somewhat sticky feeling of dried seawater in her hair. Had she jumped at some point, only to be found and brought inside? It seems unlikely, given that she appears to be entirely intact, but still relatively easy to explain when compared to anything else she can imagine. The last thing she remembers is the storm; the sea roaring so far down below, more tempting than it had ever been before, but she can't—

Cersei forces herself to stay still when she feels arms wrap around her waist, pulling her back from the window and into an embrace. It's a game Euron tends to play, trying to startle a reaction out of her, and she's determined not to let him have it, especially not when she has quite so many questions.

"My Queen," he greets and it's true this time; the pang that the word leaves behind significantly less painful even if it still stings. "You gave everyone a right scare last night."

Perhaps she'd jumped after all. Missing queens with fragile grip on their will to live can make any kingsguard rather nervous, she's found, or perhaps that had just been Jaime. _Jaime_— it's another thing she remembers, had recalled their childhood and Casterly Rock, but that couldn't possibly do much to trigger her memory. He's always there, in the back of her mind. Staring at the vast, horrifyingly open stretch of sea and thinking of him had been inevitable. "Are your people quite so fond of me already?"

"They were only curious, I think, before one of the fishermen below saw you on that clifftop and came to tell me." His arms are tighter around her now, immovable and unbearably hot like the throne near the fire the night before. "You heard him last night in the storm, didn't you?"

"The fisherman?"

"The Drowned God." She can feel his mouth on her throat, up to her ear as he whispers his faith's secrets to her. "I can smell it on you."

All she can smell is salt and dirt and sea foam, but perhaps that's precisely the point. She must have been quite a distance away from her room if she had been so difficult to reach and another spike surges up – she had _liked_ it. The thought of going impossibly farther excites her even without the memory of it and yes, perhaps she had had help after all. "I don't know what I heard."

"_I_ do. When I saw you where you stood— I don't think you recognised me. I don't think you recognised anyone." Another kiss, just below her ear, right before he takes her by the arm and turns her around. There are scratches down the side of his neck, Cersei notices now, and they look just familiar enough for her to realise that she might have been the one to inflict them. Whatever state of mind had carried her through the night before had to have known better than to struggle, she's sure – she'd grown out of similar ideas less than a year into her first marriage – and, given his behaviour, she must have complied once he'd found her. She can remember drawing blood, though, and the sight of it in his face – had it been his blood at all?

"I wanted to be alone for a while is all."

"But you weren't." There's something akin to awe in his eyes and it's as puzzling as it's fascinating. He really believes it, that much is obvious, and if she's not careful, she might just end up following his example. He drags her closer to him and pulls them both back towards the bed, hands already tugging at the pitiful remnants of her dress. She hadn't ruined her crown, at least, because it's placed on her head a moment later, Euron's bright blue eyes shining as he appraises the sight it makes. "I knew you would be fit to rule here with me, but this—" He shakes his head, smile growing all the wider. "Your bride is as bold as she's mad, one of my lords said, and she'll get struck by lightning if she doesn't learn how to keep herself safe, but I could see you standing on that tower like it was nothing. They haven't had a queen like you in forever, and you've already brought their future king into the world. _Fond_ of you? They'll worship us forever."

It's an enticing thought, she has to admit, especially given the hostility that she had expected, but it makes little sense. She'd always been told that the Ironborn are as superstitious as they come, and surely surviving a thunderstorm out of a tower window couldn't be the sort of feat that he's describing. She'd brought an heir with herself, that much is true, but it's still too early to say whether they appreciate her more for it. She'd birthed princes before, had raised and crowned and buried them, and no one had been any better for it. She'd never readied Tommen enough to be king and Joffrey's reign had been killed in its cradle and there had been nothing for her to do, no god to lean back on, no destiny to follow – for all the princes she'd given the realm, none of them had been fathered by a king. If the Drowned God had decided to favour her for her child, then he couldn't possibly love his own followers too much.

"I don't want them to worship me." None of it is supposed to make sense, of course, because it's not _real_. Euron is the mad one, truly, for pretending that a deity's will had brought her here. It had been her own decisions, her own mistakes, her own desperate desire for survival and if it hadn't been for Loren, she would have drawn her last breath months and months ago, back when the Red Keep had started crumbling over her head. He had told her all his stories of the times he'd thought he'd met his god – in the sea and on land, and on the night when he'd had his men tie him to his ship before he'd managed to follow his visions under the waves – and it's nothing like what she had experienced, _nothing_. It's no use discussing it, surely, even if it's to fuel his ambitions even further. Not when she could have him fuel her own. "I want them to follow me when it matters."

"And they will." He'd got her even closer to the bed while he'd been talking, clearly, because it takes a single unceremonious push for her to end up on her back over the soft expanse and for him to follow her. "Like your own subjects did in King's Landing. You've won over half of them already."

Her gown is beyond repair as it is and Cersei barely flinches as his hands rip through another layer and slide up her thighs, slow and deliberate. He grins against her mouth as he kisses her and that's another memory piercing its way through the drunk-like haze she'd apparently spent her wedding night in. _Blood_. It hadn't been his, then. When she'd been wed to Robert, there had been an unsettling amount of care directed at making sure that she would be in the best position possible to conceive on the first night. There had been no one to make such preparations now, although she'll have to make sure to remember when to avoid him in the future, and Cersei speaks as soon as she pulls away.

"I'm afraid there won't be any more princes just now."

"So you said." Ah. Perhaps she'd struggled, after all. There's nothing quite as stubborn – or as foolish – as hope, regardless of how much she would like to pretend otherwise. "No matter; the Iron Islands need just the one for the time being."

And really, there's not much she can say to object to that. She could close her eyes, she knows, but it's easier to seek out the sky instead – it had kept her under its wing just the night before, after all.

~.~

Holding court, Cersei soon finds, is about as much of a chore on the Iron Islands as it had been back home. The differences lie mainly in her throne – it's a dark, solid thing made from a single piece of stone that feels as if it's perpetually drenched in whale oil and lacks the comfort that the remnants of Aegon's fallen enemies had provided – and the nature of the disputes that she's supposed to settle. Back in King's Landing, it had all been complaints, requests, or a combination of both and the easiest way to move through the endless line of people waiting for an audience had been to provide the supplies she'd been asked for if she had them. Here, it's mainly petty fights over local power and the occasional murder and she's halfway convinced that not all of it needs to be taken to the crown to deal with; it's just that they're all way too interested in seeing their new queen from the mainland to miss out on the opportunity to let her share her justice with them. She'd had her share of this kind of attention when she had first become queen – both Robert's consort and a ruler in her own right – and it's far from unusual, if a little uneventful. It's only when a man that had clearly come from her own corner of the world steps forward that her interest is piqued just as the man is being announced.

"Lord Damion of House Lannister."

"Your Grace." The man had fallen on one knee in front of the dais, but it's the title that pleases her far more, among the chorus of 'my queen' that she's yet to correct out of her new subjects for its familiarity. It's what makes her rise from her seat and near him, her guards following like shadows as she examines her latest guest. It's easy to see it – he's around her age; the nervous, watery green eyes, the shining blonde hair are the perfect giveaway of a man she might have once known – and she wonders how she hadn't spoken to him before arriving here. They'd reached everyone possible in the Westerlands, she's sure, unless he's someone's rebellious descendant. There's a certain appeal to such an image; one she couldn't possibly indulge now. Instead, Cersei reaches out until her hand is in his field of vision and he looks up, as startled as he's pleased.

"You mustn't kneel." It's a custom like any other, but it's no way to win an ally over, she supposes, particularly an ally connected to her by blood. "We're family, from what I gather."

"Distantly so, Your Grace." He shifts in his place, eyes straying over the room before he lowers his voice. "I was hoping to have a word with you alone."

"It would be a pleasure." It should only take a look in the general direction of the harassed servant and his list of names to make her request clear, but she's familiar enough with his reluctant expression to know that it'd be easier to voice it. "Emmond, do inform my royal husband of the work we've done so far today. He might find it useful."

For all his desire to take his kingdom back, Euron had been thoroughly uninterested in the mundane parts of ruling so far, although – unlike Robert – it's usually easy enough to drag him out of whatever ship he'd holed himself up in should the need arise. He's already planning a raid or ten, or so he'd said, and the prospect is as intriguing as it's terrifying. It's no use thinking about it now, however, and Cersei redirects her attention to her visitor as soon as they're outside, without the echo of the throne room picking on every word. "I must say, My Lord, I can't say I expected such a visit. I was under the impression that I'd visited every branch of my family tree before sailing even further west."

"You did. My father is Reginald Lannister, he was—"

"He left quite an impression, yes." Some of the warmth in her tone had dissipated and it gives her a vague sort of pleasure to watch her distant cousin squirm at the sound of it. "He made his position on my call for aid very clear."

"I'm not here to reinforce it, I assure you." He had stopped, eyes staring into her own so intently that she has no choice to believe him and his face is unreadable; a fleeting emotion she had only ever seen in her brothers's and her children's expressions on occasion. Affection, she'd call it, if it hadn't been for the fact that Damion Lannister had never met her before. "Did he tell you _why_ he refused?"

"Oh, he did. He was very expressive. I'm a relentless, arrogant disease of a woman, I believe, and the world would have been a far better one to live in if I had only known my place to begin with."

He pales even more, as if he hadn't realised the magnitude of the damage he would have to fix, and it's really becoming rather difficult to hold back her urge to laugh. "He's not fond of change."

"I didn't get that impression, no." She picks up her pace until her guards fall somewhat far behind them and Damion takes his cue from her to do the same. "If you haven't come here to make sure I knew that already, then why?"

"Because I don't agree. A portion of his armies are mine to control and, if it please Your Grace, I would prefer they would come to you when you ask, rather than the crown."

"Not much of an answer, is it?" She should be thanking the gods for this opportunity, Cersei knows, but suspicion had always led her forward far better than gratitude. "Why would you do such a thing?"

The question makes him falter just as they stop abruptly at the corner of what could have been the gardens if not for how unkempt they are, just above the sharp edge of yet another cliff. The wind is just strong enough to drown their conversation out, it seems, by the time he finds it in himself to speak again.

"I was under Ser Jaime's command when Highgarden fell; I helped get the gold back to King's Landing." He nods, abashed, at the customary thanks she gives him, before closing his eyes as if trying to bring the memory forth. "I survived the dragon attack when it happened. Your brother was there."

"I would expect no less. He's never been one to run away from a fight." _Not until it mattered the most, at least._ Swallowing the bile is easier by the day. One day, she might even convince herself that there's no hurt left behind at all.

"You misunderstand me, Your Grace. Ser Jaime fought, yes, but it's Lord Tyrion I saw. He was there; just on the hill above the place where the Dothraki attacked. He watched it happen. I think he might have seen your brother too, and do you know what he did?"

She doesn't, but it's easy to imagine; just as easy as the ridiculous twinge of betrayal that worms its way under her skin. "Nothing."

"Nothing. And he still did nothing when King's Landing burnt down; he did nothing when the only ally he had left was exiled beyond the Wall. It must be comfortable; refusing to make a move. It certainly is for my father." He seeks out her gaze again and Cersei returns it, a little more open now. It's like looking into a mirror, given the hint of restless, aimless fire in his green eyes and the sight would have been unpleasant if she hadn't been quite so alone. "But it's not for me. You've brought about change before, plenty of it."

"It hasn't always been particularly bloodless."

"No change ever is. The Westerlands have been independent for thousands of years under the Kings of the Rock and they rule; if you want your birthright back, I'd like to be there when you take it."

"When?" It's a childish sort of enthusiasm, and not one she should encourage, but it's impossible to resist it when it's handed to her on a plate. She'd only seen wildfire take root once in the few days she'd had to prepare for the Sept of Baelor burning down, and it reminds her an awful lot of the look in Damion Lannister's eyes – a sudden burst that rises up and drags people and buildings and gods down into the dirt. It's a breathtaking sight, even all this time later, and she can already imagine the destruction it can bring about. It's just one man – just one army, not in its entirety, too – but it's enough to fuel the fire until there's no snuffing it out ever again. "You seem very sure of my ability to grant you independence, My Lord."

"I am, because you will. And independence under your command would be a pleasant one indeed." He reaches out to take her hand in his and bring his lips to her fingertips. There's no denying how much she'd missed the sort of court she'd spent her entire adult life in, not when she's got a piece of home right here in front of her, and Cersei finds herself smiling despite her better judgement. "I'll help grant it _myself_, if you'll have me."

She catches his hand just as he's about to let go of hers and holds it there, fingers intertwined as if she'd known him a lifetime already. She's yet to understand what about her way of _change_ had won him over, but there's only one response she can give him either way. "Cousin," she says, voice sweet and dense as honey, "you don't ever need to ask."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes: We catch up with Jaime's side of the story this time around. Gets mildly nsfw for a good 500ish words, but if you clicked this fic, something like this is unlikely to bother you, I'd guess.**

* * *

Jaime had been certain he'd dreamt her at first.

It certainly wouldn't have been for the first time – Cersei had frequently plagued him in his sleep even before his departure from King's Landing and had done so twice as frequently when he had thought her to be dead, but the more news he had heard from her side of the world, the more detailed his dreams had got and the night he'd seen her – halfway through his voyage back to King's Landing, in the middle of the night, after he'd volunteered to be the one to escort his brother on his visit to the North – he had been sure that this was no exception.

It had been the only thing to make sense at the time, really. He had been half-asleep, staring outside through the dirty window of his cabin, when they had passed by yet another port, when he had seen the sort of monstrosity that only the Ironborn could create; a ship larger than almost anything he'd seen before, with scarlet sails dominated by lion, its giant mouth opened for a roar, painted right in the middle. By the time his eyes had strayed to the port itself, he had already expected the view that had welcomed him there – the familiar sight of Euron Greyjoy's mutes moving all kinds of doubtlessly stolen goods on and off the ship, and several people watching over the process lest someone strayed from their purpose. Greyjoy himself had been nowhere to be seen, however, and Jaime had instead been drawn to the only two people who had seemed to stand out.

Under the sickly pale glow of the whale oil lamps scattered over the port, Cersei had been nothing but a shadowy silhouette, but she'd taken his breath away all the same, with her presence alone. The deep red of her gown and the gold of her hair had been proof enough of her identity and had certainly been enough to draw him in, but he had been unable to look away once he'd made sure it really was her, even if her face had been half-hidden by the night and the shadow of the man next to her – another willowy, blonde figure in unmistakable Lannister armour, if not for the sigil carved into the breastplate. A lion, to be sure, just like the one his sister had worn on her head when she had been crowned Queen; _her_ sigil and hers alone, to go with the long, billowing cloak behind him. Whatever position she had given him must have been a rather prestigious one and it had clearly made them close, he'd thought, venom racing through his veins (venom and sheer, unadulterated elation because she insist on driving him mad as always but she's _alive, alive, alive_ and every breath she takes feels like a gift from the gods, even from afar) at the sight of the man reaching out a hand towards her to pull her to her feet, Cersei's lips curling into a smile at something he'd said.

From the back, in the darkness, her companion had been so similar to him that it had only solidified Jaime's conviction that it was all a dream. It had felt as if he'd been looking at himself from about two years ago, faithfully following into her every step, only it had been all wrong – her attire is much more vibrant now, her crown a twisted tangle that he can't quite make out, her hair nearly reaching her shoulders, braided hastily to the back from the sides as she had always loved to wear it. The pair, as well as the port and the ship and anything but the shimmering blackness of the sea, had disappeared from his field of vision soon enough for him to think that they had been nothing but a fleeting mirage from a time he had done his hardest to leave in the past; a beautiful memory that was best left forgotten. None of it had made any sense anyway – Cersei should have had no business in this part of Westeros, if the reports were to be believed, and at least one of their more prominent relatives had refused to answer her call. Last he had heard from Tyrion before he'd actually decided to make the trip to the capital, she had still been on Pyke, unreachable as ever, even if the Ironborn raids on the mainland had started becoming more and more aggressive as of recently.

Now, however, as he stands on the same balcony that he and Cersei had frequented when they had wanted a moment alone with their future plans and themselves, away from all her soldiers and guests and handmaidens, what little hope he had been clinging to dissipates under the harsh sunlight. It's just the one ship coming to them now, so his sister isn't here, he's certain of it, but he's just as certain that this is _her_ ship. It's an even bigger abomination in the light of day – more a fortress than a boat, with high walls surrounding it from all sides, pitch black and lined with red, the paint sliding down in endless trickles like the blood of some enormous beast had dripped all over it, but it's the sails that he ends up focusing on the most; the same sails that he'd only caught a glimpse of before. The Lannister sigil still dominates it all, but the Greyjoy colours are wrapped all around it from the edges, the kraken's outline carefully painted into the surface so that its tentacles are wrapped around the lion's raised front legs. The sight almost makes him feel sick, but the statement is rather easy to read and next to him, Tyrion heaves yet another long-suffering sigh.

"Gods help us all."

"Might be a bit late to start trying to appeal to them now." This was only a messenger's visit, Tyrion had assured him when they'd first met this morning, seeing s the Iron Islands had always been rather isolated and had only become more so now that they'd separated themselves from the rest of the Six Kingdoms. The news coming from their direction had been scarce so far and _the fact that Cersei has opted to send someone to make contact has to be a good sign, _he'd repeated time and time again, as if that would make the visit any easier. "Who represents her?"

"Damion Lannister. Another traitor, though I doubt he sees himself that way. As far as he's concerned, he serves the last monarch he recognises as his own. His father turned his back on her, but _he_ joined her less than a month later and pledged his men, his sons and – as far as I'm aware – at least ten ships to her cause. In turn, she made him the Lord Commander of her Queensguard."

Of course she had. Had he expected anything else, truly? Despite his attempts to bring the vague recollection of the man's appearance to the surface of his mind, Jaime can't quite remember if the Damion Lannister he remembers from the sacking of Highgarden is the same man he'd seen back in that gloomy port, but he _must_ be. "Queensguard for a Queen consort?" He manages. The question comes out more harsh than indifferent. If Tyrion notices, he's kind enough to pretend that he hadn't. "It would be a hit on Euron Greyjoy's pride. He'd never allow it."

"Apparently he has, although I suppose we'll know for sure soon enough. I don't think he had much of a choice – Cersei's army is what got him his throne back and his fleet is what will get her hers, sooner rather than later. They have each other by the throats, so she's no consort at all. Whether he likes it or not, he must have shared the power with her."The ship nears the city even more, disappearing behind one of the half-destroyed towers of the Red Keep as it finally sails into the harbour. Another sigh. "We might as well go welcome the man. He is family, after all."

~.~

No matter how many times Jaime reads his way through the scrolls piling up on the table before him, they keep being as difficult to bear as he had dreaded. The news they'd brought isn't the worst thing about it all, if he's honest; no, it's a combination of everything and everyone involved that sours the situation endlessly. He had been forced to wait out Damion's conversation with Bran Stark's Small Council and had only got access to the information at hand well into the afternoon. In the meantime, he had managed to snap at his cousin at least three times despite his desire to speak to him at a later point. It had threatened what little civility there was to be found in the meeting and the man had retaliated by refusing to meet his eyes to the point where Jaime suspected that he would be forced to apologise if he wanted to get anything out of him.

The day had somehow managed to worsen from there.

The first message had been all Ironborn violence and none of Cersei's sharp, cutting threats; a rather graphic description of what would befall the Six Kingdoms's 'little boy king and his pathetic excuse of an army' if they threatened the Iron Islands and their independence again. It had at no point passed through his sister's hands, Jaime's sure, or the tone would have changed significantly. The contrast of the next announcement – it had passed through Oldtown at some point and had been subsequently officiated there – would have made that clear even to an untrained eye, because the announcement in question is nothing but Cersei.

"..._they were wed on Pyke in the third day of the new year, in the eyes of the Seven and the Drowned God, and were witnessed by the smallfolk and their bannermen alike_," Tyrion continues mercilessly despite Jaime's best efforts to tell him that he'd got the point across already. "_The union has already resulted in an heir – Loren of houses Lannister and Greyjoy, crown prince of the Iron Islands, heir apparent to the Westerlands._ She's brave." His brother had thrown the scroll in his general direction; Jaime watches it curl back into itself, as if just as reluctant to absorb the news as he is. "This is a threat."

"Of course it's a threat." _Loren of houses Lannister and Greyjoy_. _He_ had been the one to pick the name and offer it to her to begin with and Jaime can almost see the malicious glee in Cersei's eyes as she had written her message, well aware that it would eventually end up in his hands. She had meant to hurt him and the fact that it had surely hurt her just as much is a small comfort, but it's all he has. "She's done this on purpose."

_Loren_. It's almost worse than not knowing, now that he has a name to go with the news of his existence and his imagination had already provided a face for him to look at too – the boy must look just like Joffrey and Tommen when they had been infants, he thinks; there's not much to be said about variation when it comes to their family, with two generations of Lannister blood mixing with itself alone. It's another thought he had tried to suppress, what his son must be like, what she had called him, where they both are now, and it's far more difficult to bear now that it's inescapable.

"Well, I certainly hope so. For all her faults, our dear sister has never seemed like the sort to send out marriage announcements on accident."

"This isn't a joke." His mood is getting fouler by the moment, Jaime can tell, and his brother is not to blame, but there is no helping it now. "It's a message, just like the one she sent by sending Bronn to us. It's barely even a threat. She's done this to spite me."

"Spite you? Jaime, she _married_ him. And as much as I don't like admitting it, Greyjoy is right. If I do want to keep the Westerlands in the Six Kingdoms, how am I supposed to defend them? Cersei is doing her very best to drain every single one of our resources she can find, get as many people to kneel to her as possible, and make me look like a fool in the process. Worse, she's succeeding because she's styled herself as a practical, diligent ruler and a martyr willing to take the mantle and work in her homeland's best interest. When compared, of course, to the Small Council that must surely be ruling the country through the Stark boy's hands."

"Has she convinced everyone?" It wouldn't surprise him, mainly because she's right, and it's an answer enough when Tyrion's face falls even further in response.

"I've got Lords Lyden, Brax and Lefford on my side, along with Saltcliffe from the Iron Islands, who is only considering joining us because of some petty strife between his own house and the Greyjoys. So no, it's not everyone. I can hold three minor houses and one Ironborn traitor against her and perhaps the Dornish if I can get them to come fight in a Lannister civil war, which I doubt I can. She must be terrified."

"Neither of you has to go to war. It's a reasonable enough campaign." He had had his worries about the Stark boy in question and, although Tyrion had managed to put the majority of them to rest, Jaime would have rather preferred seeing his sister on the Throne, had it still existed. She had spread the same message before Daenerys Targaryen's arrival and, along with his efforts, it had convinced the majority of the lords she had invited to King's Landing to swear their allegiance to her instead. It had been an impassioned enough speech to touch even the more sceptical among them, but he had realised that quite a while ago – Cersei, with a little power, with or without a crown, had always been capable of convincing anyone of anything. It had always been more of a nuisance than a talent and that had never been clearer before. It's a dangerous game she's playing, but then again, dangerous games are what she's best at.

"I _know_ it's a reasonable campaign, that's the problem." Tyrion looks about as affected as he feels, if for entirely different reasons. "Few things are worse than a reasonable Cersei. Now she's got the most powerful fleet in the world on her hands, fully restored, and the rights to it by marriage. I would have said that Greyjoy was a fool to wed her at all, but from what I hear, there is little to be done about it now. Damion claims that the man loves her enough to follow her anywhere and everywhere and, since he's stuck around for nearly two years now, I'm willing to bet that that's precisely the case."

"He doesn't _love_ her, he's obsessed with her." Obsessed with what he thinks she is, really, and somehow that only makes it worse. "She didn't seem to understand how dangerous that is, no matter how many times I told her. When we were planning the ambush on Casterly Rock and the attack on Highgarden— I spent _days_ with him. Days and days on end and it was nothing but _Queen Cersei_ this and _Queen Cersei_ that. He was driving me insane."

His brother casts him a look that he can't entirely interpret, a strange mix of exasperation and morbid fascination. "I can't imagine what that must have felt like."

"I wouldn't think so, no." Tyrion seems almost amused now, and it's easier to barrel ahead instead of delving into it. "And now she and the baby are alone with him. If he ever realises—"

"There's no way he would, unless he manages to put another child in her and receives something other than a perfect Lannister heir." Cersei would never allow it, Jaime knows, but the thought makes him wince all the same. "He's heard the rumours – everyone has – but I'm sure you've both done what you could to disprove them once the betrothal was arranged." At the silence that follows, his brother looks up in alarm, incredulity written all over his face. "Jaime?"

"What would have been the point? He knew. You said it yourself, _everyone_ knew." It does seem ridiculously reckless when he looks back at it now, but they had both been so happy, and Cersei had wanted to announce— He squeezes his eyes shut against the steadily rising tension in them. It doesn't matter now, what Cersei had wanted. It doesn't matter what he had wanted either. It had disappeared, slipping through his fingers like dust, the day he had departed from King's Landing. "I never should have left her side." She wouldn't have been a queen, perhaps, but she would have been safe with him, somewhere across the Narrow Sea. It would have made her – _them_ – far happier than whatever it is that she's been handed now, he's sure.

"No, you shouldn't have." The reprimand, calm as it is, is unexpected enough to startle him and Jaime forces himself to meet his brother's eyes. There's no judgement there; only a hint of the most reluctant sadness he's ever seen.

"She _lied_ to me." She had done it before, to be sure, but there had always been a reason that he could respect; an excuse for him to make his peace with. There had been nothing of the sort this time. "Just as she did to everyone else. I could have understood if she had told me, but she chose not to. I gave a word; what do you think I should have done?"

"You could have been a brother to her for once in your life, for a start. Tell me, did your word start to matter quite so much before or after she told you she still intended to marry the man who had strengthened her army tenfold already?"

Oh, he's not tricking him into this. It had been painful to hear her mention it like it was nothing, he can't deny that much, but he had handled Robert; surely he could have handled one more suitor. The thought of years upon years of hiding, pointless hiding from someone who already knew, had weighed him down, but it had been nothing compared to her secrecy, nothing. The lie had insulted him more than anything. He'd convinced himself of that quite thoroughly over the last few months.

"All I've ever done was be a brother to her when she needed me to be. How did she return that favour?"

"_Favour_?" It's rare for him to truly enrage his brother – truth be told, Jaime isn't sure when it had happened for the last time – and rarer still for it to be on Cersei's behalf, and the notion alone leaves him speechless. "I was right here, in front of the city gates, the day she realised she couldn't win this war. I looked her in the face and begged her for her own life as she spared mine. She executed a prisoner for it, made sure to prove all my faith in her wrong, and it was the most helpless thing I've ever seen her do. I could see it, but you're telling me that you couldn't?"

"Of course I could. She would have never married again if she'd had a choice."

"So you _did_ know." For all his effort to not show just how angry he is, Tyrion is as furious as he's confused. After all this time, Jaime can't blame him, truly. "And you still left her to die."

"She would have died if I had come back for her, we both would have. You know it as well as I do."

"I know nothing of the sort." The confusion is what wins over, in the end, as each and every defensive statement slips further and further away from common sense. "How did _you_?"

"I didn't." The admission slips through gritted teeth, only held back by the stubborn belief that not keeping it a secret would somehow change the course of events once more. "As soon as I heard about the ambush at Dragonstone, I was ready to ride south. Your King was the one who said—"

"What?" He'd faltered halfway through his confession and comprehension dawns over his brother's face; partially, at least, as this must still make little sense to him. "What did Bran say?"

"Nothing." He'd made a mistake. Hiding away in the north would have done nobody any good in the end, but it's been _months_; if he admits it now, there would be no going back. Might as well keep whatever dignity he'd remained with close to his chest and wait; wait as long as he needs to, just like he had so far. "It's nothing."

"Jaime—"

"Damion wanted to have a word before he departed," Jaime cuts him off and gets to his feet, heading for the door before his brother had had the chance to ask any more questions. "I want to make sure that he keeps Cersei safe, at least. She's never fared well when entirely alone."

"She's far from alone." It's a weak comfort at best, but it's all Tyrion has to offer. "She has her guards and her court and her baby; I'm sure she can manage herself."

"Of course she's alone." Guards and court and children had never been able to mask true absence well. "I'm not there."

~.~

"I apologise for earlier," Jaime says as soon as he runs into his cousin again, eager to get the courtesies out of the way. "My worry got the best of me, I'm afraid."

"There's nothing to apologise for, My Lord." Damion's smile is just as perfunctory, although some of the awe that had been written all over his face ever since Highgarden still lingers. Had Jaime known that narrowly escaping death by dragonfire would have absolved him of all his sins, he might have subjected himself to it earlier. It had worked out for Cersei too, after all. "I would have spoken to you sooner, had my business with your brother not been so pressing. Her Grace is quite all right; even more so now that she's back with her prince."

_Her_ _prince_. He wants – _needs_ – to know more about him, but the need to hear more about her travels is stronger. "They've been separated for a time, then?"

"For a time, yes. Her Grace wanted to stray somewhat from the Westerlands to make sure that her future borders would be secure." He chances a look around them, as if unsure whether someone would accuse him of treason to a king he'd never sworn allegiance to. "I'm sure she explained it all to you before you left for the north."

"Me?" Had Cersei told him that she'd been the one to send him there; the one to command him to leave for King's Landing as well? It seems doubtful – she would be too proud to do something of the sort, surely – but perhaps it's in his best interest to play along. It's less and less of a misconception the more time passes, either way. "Yes, of course she did. She does love to plan for the long term."

"I've noticed." The look on the man's face is too fond for comfort and for a brief, irrational instant, all Jaime wants is to rip off his ridiculous cloak and strangle him with it. "She would be happy to hear I've found you in good health."

"I'm sure." He hadn't meant to sound quite as bitter as he feels, but it must be enough for Damion to pick up on, because he shakes his head.

"I mean it. She prays for your safe return day and night, My Lord."

_Return_, not _arrival_. The pressure behind his eyelids is back and Jaime blinks it away furiously. He refuses to be moved by a second-hand account of his sister's supposed turn to the gods all of a sudden. "She knows precisely where I am. Surely she has more pressing matters to pray about. Her continued safety, for one."

"I would say she's safe for now, despite her rather— radical ideas for how her new lands should be ruled. The Ironborn have accepted most of it so far, curiously enough. She's quite well-loved, if you'd like to know, as is her son."

"And what about the boy?" It would only be natural to ask, he reasons. The boy is supposed to be his blood anyway. "What do you know of my nephew?"

"There's not much to know about children when they're as young as he is, I'm afraid, but he'll make a wonderful prince." Damion smiles, then; a sly, conspiratorial thing and it almost feels like Cersei's the one speaking through him. "He's a true Lannister."

"He is." Whatever Tyrion says, there truly is no point in lying. "I can assure you of that much."

If the man is at all unsettled by the revelation, he doesn't let it show. "I worry for Her Grace on occasion. She's too reckless when it comes to him; she's ready to do just about anything to keep him safe. It makes the position much more difficult, as I'm sure you remember."

"I do." He takes a step back, readying himself for a goodbye. He can't stand this a moment later; listening to what a near stranger has to say about Cersei while he has to wait it all out like he's been doing for months. It would be too dangerous to try anything now, but Tyrion had been right – the right time would come. Euron had been a fool to marry her at all, if he valued his continued existence. "There's much more to learn, I'm sure. I'll be leaving for the north again with my brother at first light tomorrow. Meet me at the docks then."

"Of course, My Lord."

He barely makes it through the rest of their pleasantries before turning on his heel and marching for the room he had been given for the night. For once, the end of the day can't come soon enough.

~.~

He dreams of her again that night. It truly is a dream this time, he knows, because they're in her chambers and King's Landing outside their window is untouched, unlike the barely put together town emerging from the ash that it is now. It's a strange, disjointed thing, half-memory and half-hope of a next meeting, he suspects; Cersei is sitting on the opposite of the table, talking through the bites of their dinner, but she's also at the door or in her bed or in his arms and it's only when his vision kisses him and her lips taste like something sinful and foreign that he realises what it is that he's remembering. It's vivid enough to wake him and his body feels alight when he comes back to his senses, his breathing heavy as if he'd just fought his way out of the battlefield.

_Their last night_. It had been surprisingly warm back then, right before that meeting in the Dragonpit, for a night on the edge of winter, much like the warmth he feels now in the ever-improving weather. It had been rather calm, too, however, while there's a storm raging outside his window now, and he's all alone. He recalls it as clearly as if she's here with him, though; there's no need for similarities when he can close his eyes and bring it all back to the surface again, dangerous as it is.

Their dinner that night had been rather unusual, courtesy of their new cook from the Summer Isles. It had tasted somewhat like milk, only half-frozen and although he hadn't asked about what exactly had been put into making it, the taste of it on Cersei's tongue – cold enough to make him laugh into her impatient kisses – lingers still. It had been immensely sweetened, likely by honey, but it's the bitter aftertaste of it that he remembers, deep and rich and sharp as his sister's hands on him. He had stopped her, eventually; had led her to the bed and had fucked her for as long as they'd been able to stand without losing their minds, as if it had been their last night in the world – for all they had known, it could have been, as she'd felt the necessity to remind him earlier.

He's not thinking about it now; he _shouldn't_. It's the same as it had been all through his needless mourning – the more he tries to put the pieces of their life back together in his head, the closer she is to taking over his mind entirely and he can't allow that, not even while trying to figure out a way to get to her without putting her life in danger, but for all his resolve, she's still _there_. The moment he closes his eyes, Jaime can see her clear as day, eyes heavy, face flushed; can hear her hitched breath in his ear, her whispered pleading when she'd thought he was taking too long; can feel her body pressing against him, teasing and enticing and nearly maddening. He had rarely indulged such demands and he certainly hadn't that night, no matter how many bloody trails her nails had left down his back as she had urged him on. The thought of that alone is enough to make his breath pick up its pace again – enough to make him hard, even if he'd meant to observe it all from afar, as much as he could – and he sinks back into the covers of the bed as he idly unlaces his breeches before he can think better of it. He mustn't think about her, truly, but just this once couldn't possibly hurt.

Another wave of desire – hot, frustrating, far too overbearing – washes over him as he finally gives up the ghost and his hand wraps around his cock, the pace he sets a little too quick for his usual state of mind but just rough enough to imitate the touch he needs. It's not enough to mask the calluses on his fingertips when compared to how much softer – how much smaller – Cersei's hands are, but it'll have to do. Her rhythm had always been just as furious, just as demanding and it had always reduced him to clinging on to her, only coming back to himself enough to open his eyes when he'd spilled his seed to watch her lick it off of her own palm. He closes them again now and lets himself see her. It'll hurt later, it always does, but it's inevitable once he'd dared to consider it at all. It's what his sister always does – as soon as he steps into the water, she drags him into the open sea with her, even when she's a thousand miles away from him.

Despite the fury of the storm outside, the dawn is near, he knows, and with it countless people who could come knocking on his door, but it's not enough to dissuade him. The deeper he dives into his own memories, the worse it gets and he's so painfully aroused that his own hand is a poor substitute, but it barely even matters anymore. Cersei had had a trick for that too; all for him, just for the moments when they'd been short on time. It had always been useful, but particularly so in the morning before the summit. She had kissed him breathless as soon as she had woken up, clearly in the mood to do all the work herself. He can still remember how her pale skin had nearly glowed under the frosty winter sunlight once she'd draped herself over his body; how she'd buried her face in his shoulder to stifle her gasps once he'd entered her and had let her set the pace she'd wanted. The thought makes his own pace pick up now, in a poor replica of Cersei's heat surrounding him from everywhere and the fire in her eyes when she'd pulled just far enough to be able to kiss him again, sharp and biting and as greedy as she always tended to be.

"We must leave soon," she'd whispered after yet another insistent knock on her doors, her breath washing over him making him tremble, "plenty of preparations to be made."

"_Now_?" He had understood, of course, just how many things needed to be taken into account, but it hadn't been particularly considerate of her to start something she had known she wouldn't finish – only she'd intended to do just that, clearly, and he'd felt her right hand close loosely around his throat a moment later, the pressure increasing ever so slightly with every downward thrust of her hips until he had felt lightheaded, the image of her piercing eyes inches away from his already starting to darken around the edges by the time she'd abruptly let go. The sudden rush of air had flooded his body, sweeter than any relief he had ever known apart from _her_, and it's the recollection of it– the elation that had raced through him, Cersei's grip on him as she'd stilled and shivered and finally found her release – that drives him over the edge now and Jaime bites into his lip to stop himself from crying out, bites until he can taste blood lest her name manages to slip past his tongue. It hurts, inside and out, just as he had thought it would, and he catches his breath as he stares sightlessly at the ceiling, heartbeat gradually slowing down as he finds himself smiling, for once.

Finally, he sleeps.

~.~

When one of Tyrion's men comes to wake him what feels like the blink of an eye later, Jaime can barely drag himself down to the harbour, cloak wrapped even tighter around his shoulders against the still-chilly morning air. Back North it is, this time along with half of Bran Stark's court for a visit of his sister's kingdom. For a long moment, he lingers by the docks and contemplates whether it's necessary for him to make the trip just now, but there's no other choice. He had tried to build a life there and, difficult as it is to imagine keeping it now that he knows what fate likely has in store for him, simply not coming back without another word is not only cruel; it's reckless. Where can he go? His brother is leaving in the same direction and his sister is as untouchable as it gets.

As if by command, Damion Lannister nears him as soon as he'd let himself think of her again, far too cheery given how early the hour is. "I wish you a safe journey north, My Lord. Her Grace will be most pleased, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," Jaime echoes. It's not quite a lie; it's just letting the misconception stick around long enough for Cersei to either be forced to explain to her armies about his absence or be forced to communicate with him directly. They're both rather tempting, as far as options go. "When you reach her, tell her—"

_Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her that _she_ should be sorry. Tell her I can't wait until we meet again. Tell her to meet me halfway, if she dares._

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Tell her you didn't see me for long and that we couldn't really speak. She worries enough as it is."

"You want me to _lie_?" For all his bravado, his cousin seems rather disturbed at the thought, especially if it comes down to Cersei. Jaime nods; a final refusal to back down this time.

"You'll just have to trust me." _And I'll just have to wait_. "It's for Her Grace's own good."

She would understand, eventually, and by that time, he would be ready to be what she had evidently been praying for once more. For all the uncertainties that the world has offered him, it's the only truth Jaime had ever known.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes: Hello and welcome to yet another meeting to Heavy-Handed Metaphors For Everything Anonymous; I'm Mia and cannot stop putting the aforementioned metaphors into every single thing I write.**

**In this one, we go back to Cersei and inch the plots closer to one another (and yes, for anyone wondering - this is indeed happening in the same night as last chapter).**

* * *

It's not a raid, truly, and they're not going anywhere distant, or she would have never allowed this to happen.

"Mama?" Loren's steps are wobbly and uncertain, but he's still doing remarkably well, given the gentle sway of the ship and the still-twitching mackerel in his tiny fist. "Look!"

"Yes, darling." Cersei doesn't move up to meet him – it can be discouraging, she's found, to stop such an effort in its tracks – but catches him as soon as he reaches her. "A fish."

"Fis!"

"_Fish_." He had only said his first word a fortnight ago – _mama_, as well, swiftly followed by _give me_. He'd been sat on one of the tentacles stretching out from the throne, hand grasping for her crown, and Cersei had taken it off without a moment's hesitation to place it in his arms. She had been too delighted to hear his voice to care for the possibility of him breaking it and, to her pride, Loren had done nothing of the sort, as careful as he's curious. He had only made her prouder by speaking as much as he could in every waking moment since then. It's still difficult and most words don't come easily to him just yet, but there's more than enough time. For the first time in an eternity, time is the only thing not pressing down on her. "Give me that."

She takes the fish he'd scavenged out of the basket and tosses it aside in disgust. If they leave it all out under the sun just a little longer, it'll start rotting and the smell of the ship is unpleasant enough as it is, no matter how desensitised she'd become to it over the months. "We'll be setting sail now. Did you say goodbye?"

"Goodbye," he agrees solemnly, his bright green eyes earnest in a way that feels altogether too familiar. "To Adrack."

"You'll see him again soon," Cersei assures him. Adrack is Lord Blacktyde's boy, as far as she remembers; she had seen them playing together when she'd had to leave her son with one of her maids while holding court and it makes her happy to watch him making friends. She'd made some of her own in the meantime – allies if not friends, but it's the best she can ever hope for – and the Iron Islands had almost become safe enough to be a home of sorts. They both look unsettlingly out of place with their appearance alone, but it's a relatively easy truth to swallow when compared to the fate she could have faced instead. It's the thought of that fate alone that had carried her through the endless sailing, through Loren's birth and everything that had followed, if she's to be honest with herself, and Cersei clings to it desperately. "He will still be here in a week."

_And a month after that, I might coax his father into following me to Casterly Rock_. Although the majority of the Ironborn are ready enough to try and claim a castle on the mainland, especially one quite as legendary as the one she had promised them, it had still felt daring to suggest it in front of all those near-strangers; leaders of houses she had never got close to before, much more willing to follow a Greyjoy king than a Lannister queen. They had listened, of course, but it's not _enough_. It never will be, Cersei suspects, unless she's certain that they obey her for who she is. The prospect of that grows stronger every day and it's the wisest possible choice to let Loren – he would inherit it all, no question about it – become a part of them as well. Once the Rock is back under her control, she'd do well to make sure he would have the chance to expand his horizons further. Joffrey had always been so lonely; she wouldn't let the same thing happen here, when the line between royalty and subjects is quite so thin anyway. Here and now, he's still just a boy of one, far too young to understand any of it besides the sea and the stone that surrounds him from all sides. For a future king of the Iron Islands, it might just be enough.

It's the purpose of this voyage, in a way, only it's for Cersei instead of her son – she had wanted to see the lands they rule over, meet her vassals as she had in the Westerlands, lest they decide to turn their back on her when she needs them the most. It's not much of a change from Pyke and the endless days spent in the throne room, but she's grateful for the distraction all the same. Ever since the Red Keep had fallen, staying in the same place had started feeling more and more like a prison, no matter how much she tries to remind herself that she had been doing it all her life.

But her attention wanders away from it all now – Loren is tugging at her sleeve, insistent enough to make her laugh. "I want," he starts, only to falter a moment later when his limited vocabulary fails him. "Come."

"Come where?" He has no way of knowing just how long they would spend on this boat, but it doesn't look like he wants her to climb off either – instead, he's trying to pull her towards the cabins, it seems.

"_Come_."

"Your Grace?"

Despite her best efforts, Cersei allows herself a sigh. This sort of greeting is never too far away, not even in an open sea, and the _Silence_ is still chained to the island; clearly, she's still easy enough to get hold of. "Yes?"

Much to her relief, it's one of Damion's sons – another Reginald, though thankfully not a traitor, unlike his grandfather – breathless from the climb, as if he'd been running all the way from the castle. "A raven just arrived from King's Landing. Father thought you might like to hear from him before you depart."

"He's right." She almost snatches the scroll from him, trembling fingers clutching around its edges as she stretches it out. Suddenly, none of the world around her feels real – Loren, still pulling at her skirts to get her attention, her Queensguard and his expectant gaze, the deck under her feet – and her heart beats so loudly that it's nearly deafening. "He must have been in a hurry."

"Quite so, Your Grace. He would like to return as soon as possible, but he needs an answer first."

"I'll arrange for it." The message is relatively short, but all it takes is a quick skim over it to realise that it isn't going to be to her liking at all.

_Your Grace,He must have been in a hurry."_

_"_

_I've been welcomed into the city peacefully enough. I've yet to meet the King, but you were right – your brother is the one who handles all major negotiations. He explicitly said that he would prefer it if you would come to speak to him in person on our next visit. I can recount it all in detail as soon as we meet. A raven is not the safest way for news to travel._

_If you'll allow me the frivolity – you did implore me to tell you of everything I experienced during my stay – Ser Jaime asks after you. I was left with the impression that he would like me to keep it from you lest he worries you even more, but I assumed you ought to know. It might be wise to send him a raven before he sets sail again. It would put him at ease, I feel._

He tells her nothing of essence, in short, and Cersei might have been further irritated by having her day interrupted for this, but it doesn't seem possible anymore – she can feel Reginald's presence in her immediate surroundings, can hear Loren continue to brag about his discovery of fish to someone else on the other side of the deck and it's all so distant; so senseless. For all his effort to be tactful, her cousin might as well have struck her right across the face.

Anger is the first thing to make its way to the surface, as it always tends to. _Ser Jaime asks after you_. _He's quite late_, she would have replied if she'd had the option to be frivolous too; _he had his chance to ask over a year ago_. The picture enough could make her sick – Jaime, wandering around the shattered remains of the capital, feigning concern for as long as it would benefit him. Perhaps she had finally managed to teach him something on their last day together; that it's really rather easy to twist the circumstances as well as everyone else's lack of understanding to your own advantage, but that he would use it like this, now of all times – it's below him. It must be. She had always thought it to be so.

It's a lifetime of biting back tears that keeps her in place; that keeps her from curling the scroll into a tight little ball or tearing it to pieces. "'Before he sets sail again'," she repeats, voice more brittle than she would have preferred it to be. "Is my brother leaving King's Landing?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I assumed he had told you already. Both Lord Tyrion and he will be sailing for White Harbour tomorrow morning on a diplomatic visit." He leans closer – too close, as if they're conspirators sharing a secret – and braves a smile. "On your orders, from what I've heard."

"Yes, of course. I didn't expect it to be quite so soon is all." It's the lie that bothers her, no matter how much Cersei tries to deny it – not the betrayal, not the stray questions about her person, not even the implication of those questions, but the fact that he's still keeping up the pretence of serving _her_. It hurts, plain and simple, and it won't stop just because she chooses to pretend as well, but it isn't like her twin had left her much of a choice. If this had been his message – an effort to keep her from seeming as alone as she actually is – she could have really done without it. "I wish them both a safe voyage. Ser Damion and I can discuss the rest when he returns."

"Yes, Your Grace. Will that be all?"

"That will be all."

She's still seething, fists turning white as she clenches them even tighter, and it's only Loren's laughter that reminds her that she's not alone as he scatters downstairs and into the cabin. Euron is soon to follow, a string of curses echoing into the cramped space as he disappears after the boy and soon enough, by some unspoken command, they're at sea and she's the only one left leaning against the decorative castle walls of the ship, trying to keep her body upright as the world disappears from view and only the waves remain.

It makes no difference – for all her efforts, she's still clutching to the raven scroll as she lowers herself onto the wooden floor, the blazing sun above her slowly lowering itself towards the sea surface just enough for the shadows it casts to hide her from everyone's eyes. She's their queen and the Ironborn allow no room for weakness, but there's not a single one of them to witness her now, just this once. _Alone_. It's what she's been craving for a small eternity and yet – a simple message later – it's the bitterest word she's ever had to taste.

~.~

Her husband's the one to find her, though that's not much of a surprise by now. It's long after nightfall – she had let him handle Loren for the night, just as he'd expressed the desire to do earlier, and the anxiety the decision had left her with eases somewhat when she sees him smiling. The fact that he likes to spend time with the boy had been thoroughly unexpected and it unsettles her, to a degree – children are easy enough at this age and much less so when they start being petulant about everything. His patience would likely run out by then, but even that isn't certain anymore. After all, Cersei had assumed that he would have lost patience with _her_ by now.

She gets to her feet with a wince, body stiff from the time spent curled into the same cramped position. She can barely feel her legs and it's a relief in more ways than one to lean onto the side of the ship again and gaze down into the liquid blackness below. "He's asleep, yes?"

"Yes." Euron's arms wrap around her waist and she can feel the cold touch of steel against her side; a weapon, no doubt, but she can't gather enough concern in her to see it as a threat. "We're halfway to Great Wyk already."

"Houses Merlyn and Sparr." She had memorised it all, as well as the customs that worked best with each. "I'm hoping for another thousand men from them, at least. Manfryd has already sworn allegiance to you, I know, but his brother worries me. If he can't be persuaded to follow me—"

"He can be. He _will_ be." It's the sort of unshakable, unquestioning confidence that infuriates her and Cersei bites back a retort before it can force its way out. Jaime would have never waved away such a possibility, but Jaime isn't here. She'll do well to remember it, no matter what news she had been brought from the mainland. It's all Damion's fault, really – him and his thrice-cursed need to make contact with anyone he deems even relatively useful. "Look south."

After so many months, it's easy enough to tell where that is and easier still to guess what he's trying to show her. "A storm," she acknowledges. It would be nothing special for the Iron Islands, only the sky is perfectly clear above them. "Heading for the capital, from what I can see."

"It's a good omen, wouldn't you say?" She gets a sigh for her lack of response, but he gets bored of his own irritation just a moment later. "I've brought you something."

That is enough to make her turn around, intrigue making its way through the whirlwind in her head. "Not the best time for gifts, is it?"

"I meant for Loren to have it," Euron shrugs, one hand lingering on the weapon she'd felt earlier, "but it's too heavy for him to hold and it looks like it'll be taller than him for another two years at least. In that time, I can have a battle axe made for him. You might as well have this one. It's a woman's weapon to begin with."

It's all she can do to stay rooted in her place when he unsheathes the dagger – more a sword than a dagger, truly, but it's too thin and its handle too small for Cersei to have a proper name for it – and places it into her hand. Her grip around the hilt is awkward, the move itself half-forgotten, but her hand remembers enough of Jaime's lessons to keep the weapon steady. It's a small, crude thing, crowned with a lion's head with a kraken's body wrapped around it all, the tentacles embracing the place where the blade itself begins. It would have been a fitting gift for Loren of houses Lannister and Greyjoy and less so for Queen Cersei, first of her name, but it's unlike nothing she's been freely given before and for once, it's rather easy to swallow the reproach before it gets the best of her.

"For all our sakes, I hope it won't get much use."

"Oh, it won't. Everyone we're going to meet has heard all the stories; all you need to do is prove them right."

"Stories?" The notion would have made her scowl even if one of his hands inching down from her waist and bunching up the fine fabric of her gown hadn't already done that. It's becoming far too warm for her usual heavy velvets and while she certainly isn't sorry to see winter go, the choices she must opt for now offer far too much ease of access. She had liked her near-armour far better, with how difficult it had been to remove.

"Mm. When my niece took back the Iron Islands in my absence, she must have pacified all those lords with promises of what the Dragon Queen would do for them once she took the Seven Kingdoms. And what happened to her queen? She slaughtered a city and got a knife to the heart from her most trusted ally for it. _My_ queen is the one promising them the mainland. A weapon by your side would make the choice even easier."

He seems to relish the image far too much; enough to make her stomach roil. "I don't know how to use it."

She knows enough to kill, she's sure of that much. Then again, who doesn't? It's all rather messy, war when it's this up close, and far too slow for her liking, but few things can be as clean as poison and wildfire are. If it ever gets to that, it's not too hard to imagine herself putting it to good use.

"You don't need to. They just need to see."

So this is what it's about. Chances are, unless she finds a way to get the upper hand, all the travelling around the Iron Islands would prove to be less of the negotiations it had been in the Westerlands and more of her being paraded around as the prize given to the winner in a war she had taken no part of. It's been over twenty years since the last time, but it might as well have been yesterday for all the progress she had apparently made and the anger surges up again, far more widespread than it had been this morning. Robert, at least, had had the grace to start resenting her sooner or later. She's yet to understand why Euron hasn't gone down the same path. She's been a wife queen to him, certainly, but she had still failed to be a _good_ one so far.

_The most beautiful woman in the world_, he had called her when they had first met. She supposes she can trust the judgement of a man who had seen it all, but surely it must get dull after a time? It's yet another thing she can't trust her judgement with, now that her twin isn't by her side. Jaime had wanted her, no doubt, as much as she had wanted him, but it had never been a matter of appearance. What it _had_ been a matter of for him is a mystery, the more Cersei thinks of it. What had he ever loved about her? It must have been significant if it had let him confirm Damion's misunderstanding of his allegiance, but he's still _hiding_ from her. He's as confused as she is, it seems, and it's nearly enough to drive her mad.

Very well. If he's still unsure of what he has to – wants to – do, she could easily show him that she'd made a choice. If he hadn't bothered to send a raven, then why should she? There are many other, similarly efficient methods of communication, she'd discovered recently. It's a question she had meant to ask weeks ago either way; if it gets her more of the support she needs, all the better.

"The day you were crowned," she ventures, one hand still gripping the edge while the other halts his progress down her side. With a little imagination, it could be more affection than irritation. "You said you drowned first."

"I did." The tone alone suggests that its nothing and it's no exaggeration this time, unlike the flair that usually follows in the footsteps of the stories he tells her. She can see it in his eyes once she turns to look at him. Another thunder sounds in the distance and he grins, gaze straying to the clouds ahead. The territory around the Iron Islands is prone to storms, Cersei had discovered, and she'd started relishing them as much as the Ironborn do, but while this particular one tears King's Landing apart, here in the Sunset Sea, it's nothing but a light drizzle for now. It feels like home; being surrounded by water from all sides. "For a time. The Drowned God brought me back. He always does with those meant to lead us."

"Was your brother one of them?" It's more curiosity than provocation and his irritation at the mention of his family shifts into a smile once he realises.

"He might have been, once. I suppose the potential someone has also comes into account. For years under the Targaryen rule, there were kings on the Salt Throne who were never drowned at all. Little Yara never dared, either." His eyes turn sly as he assesses her and even after all this time, it's chilling; more so than the rain slowly soaking through her gown. "And I kept thinking, how could anyone stand it? If they'd crowned me just like that, I would have spent my entire life roaming the world, wondering if I had earned it. I would have ended up drowning myself just so I could know. Good thing Aeron did it for me before I got to that."

"What was it like?" She _has_ to know. It had been just a morbid source of fascination before, but she feels so much more open to it all now; so much more devoted to something she could never thought she could belong to. "Drowning?"

"You've never been lost at sea? Thought you wouldn't be able to swim back to shore?"

"Of course I have." Jaime had always been there to drag her out of the deep end, but the momentary surge of panic had never failed to rush through her all the same, along with the realisation that she wouldn't make it if he didn't get to her in time. It had been a child's blind trust, at first, and by the time it had turned into devotion, it had been far too late to do anything about it. Not that she would know – she had never cared to try.

"That's what it felt like, only a thousand times stronger. He held me down until I couldn't fight even if I'd wanted to and I took the sea in."

"How?" It sounds _inviting_, just not in the way it had been in her most desperate moments, back in the first years of her marriage. It had been the thought of her children and her brother that had forced her to stay put back then, but she had been well-aware that jumping into the water would mean certain death. It doesn't seem quite so set in stone anymore, now that she's had a taste of an entirely different world.

"I opened my eyes, drank up the water." It sounds like the simplest thing in the world. It must be, for an Ironborn – for a King, more like – and Cersei squashes down the voice that tells her that she's easily worthy of knowing as well. "My brother must have named me king while I was under; I don't know. I could feel the sea filling my lungs and I couldn't breathe, so I drowned. Next thing I knew, I was back by the seaside and they put a crown on my head when I got up. There wasn't much else to it."

"And in the meantime?" It must be a captivating thing, death, and the idea of having to face what lurks on the other side is as enthralling as it is terrifying. "Was there anything there?"

"Not from what I could see, no. I felt like I was dissolving into the sea, falling to pieces, until the Drowned God brought me to the surface again. Perhaps that was all he wanted to show me." His fingers trail down her arm and he turns her to him again, leaning down for a fleeting kiss to whisper the rest of his confession into her lips. "It was like nothing I've ever felt before. Words could never do it justice."

"Is that so?" _Yes, yes_, she wants to say, _you're almost there_, but she can't risk losing her composure now. "You know your god far better than I've ever known any of mine."

"They don't have to be your gods anymore if you've forsaken them already." His free hand buries itself in her hair until she's surrounded by him and it's too careful, too awestruck; suffocating, more so than his aggression tends to be.

She pulls away, not enough to offend him, but enough to regain the space around her. "No, they don't have to." It's easier to think when there's no one touching her. _This must be what Jaime loved once_. It's easy to imagine that it's what had made him worried, too, if not worried enough to actually come to her. She had always been capable of withstanding a storm, but he's the only one she'd ever welcome the occasional gentleness from. It's why he had left, in the end, exasperated by her disregard for anything but their continued survival. It's why he had stood by her side in all the years of her marriage, relatively subdued as she had been for the bigger part of it – perhaps she's easier to love when she doesn't want much of anything; easier to handle when she doesn't care about anything but her family.

And oh, how she had cared – about her children and her father, the vague memories that Mother had left behind, even; both her brothers, truth be told, after the truth of Joffrey's murder had been revealed to her. She had cared enough for it to hurt, and it had brought her nothing but resentment.

It's rather ungrateful of her, really, to refuse what she's being offered now, but love had always been such a bizarre, twisted thing for her to search for, that it's difficult to take it from someone she hadn't asked it from, even if it's offered on a silver spoon for her to feast on. She had learnt to lick it off of Lannister blades years ago.

~.~

The farther away she gets from the castle, Cersei had noticed over her months on Pyke, the wilder the island gets. It's inevitable – the castle itself is nothing but seemingly solid stone and the bridges that keep it all connected as if by magic and it's the only place that feels even remotely habitable. The island is a fortress all on its own, with its rocky shores, sharp cliffs and unexpected whirlwinds ready to drag anyone unfamiliar with the sea right into its depths and its savagery had long since stopped being a surprise, but it still manages to leave her in awe when she examines it at length.

_You don't have to do this_, she had been assured a thousand times, but it had all come from her countrymen alone; a fearful warning about a supposed danger that none of them could justify to her when she had asked them to elaborate. It's difficult to remember, sometimes, that not all of her bannermen are like her father; that the majority of them had only forgiven her for the Sept of Baelor because of the fanatics that had burnt inside it. She had seen them wander around the sept near the castle every time before they set sail, sending their prayers to the only gods they knew and expecting her to do the same.

She had indulged them at first, of course, for a long while. Cersei had made an example out of her own visits, but it had been different then – _she_ had always remained ashore, biding them all good fortune and retreating back into the throne room as soon as the Iron Fleet melted into the horizon. She had never joined them before and it's only right for her to make a sacrifice of some kind. It doesn't have to be a bloody one to be precious, she had learnt at least that by now, and, truth be told, it isn't much of a sacrifice at all. If anything, it's an excuse.

Damion is the one to say it last, for what has to be the thousand time today. He had been saying it rather often ever since his return. "Your Grace, I must insist. Think it through."

"You really mustn't." Over the several months that had passed since they had first met, Cersei had managed to make him ease off some of the jittery nervousness that had plagued him when he'd arrived and although it had made their communication remarkably easier, she had also regretted it enough times by now to wish she could take the kindness back. He's too close, too familiar, too comfortable with giving advice even when she had explicitly asked him to keep quiet. "I've made my mind."

"Is it truly worth giving up your faith for an alliance?"

"There isn't much of it to give up, to tell you the truth. Tell me, what have the Seven got me?" Imprisonment and ashes and death; there's not much else that she can remember. There never has been, in retrospect. "I'm going out at sea. What better time than this?"

It's another visit, this time to a less friendly territory – not quite a raid, but close enough to one to feel significant. A raid is on the list as well, for the week after that – _just one more_, Euron had sworn to her,_ and you'll have your castle back. It's important. We need it_. She had trusted him just this once, even though he'd refused to say something more on the matter, in the hopes that he would share more once they leave Pyke behind once more. If she can't trust him with her naval forces, what could she possibly do it with? It's what he's best at.

"Never might be a better time, if you'll allow me." It doesn't seem to matter whether she would or wouldn't, either because Damion feels that he's family enough to be entirely open with her or because he's spent enough time around her to know that she wouldn't have the heart to hurt him now that they know each other quite so well. "This is a travesty. Ser Jaime—"

"Did Ser Jaime tell you to follow my every step lest I make a decision he might dislike?" She hisses the words out, aware of the audience that had gathered by the time it had taken her to reach the water, and her cousin's eyes widen with a somewhat amusing mix of terror and guilt. _He's told you just that, hasn't he? _She had _known_ there had been a reason for him to keep up the impression that she had been the one to send him up north, but had never guessed just how low he'd sink to get what he had wanted. "Best remind him that he can deliver such advice himself, then. I can't quite hear him from here."

Damion holds her by the elbow when she makes to turn her back on him and it's an age-old gesture; so _Jaime_ that for a moment, she can almost believe that he'd listened and appeared in front of her, as if by magic.

There's no magic but the one she weaves herself, however, and they're short on time. They're being watched, she's acutely aware of it, and it's not the least bit surprising – it's not every day that a queen no one had expected to be ruled by made a change this big. "Let me go."

"Your _Grace_—"

"I'm ready." It's directed more towards the priest waiting for her rather than her Lord Commander now and the man beckons her closer. She had seen it done before, once or twice, and it had left enough of an impression to give her just the confidence she so desperately needs when she's so far away from everything she's ever known.

But this is what she knows now – the sea and the harsh land she reigns over; the severe faces of the Drowned Men and the crown she wears now, light enough for her to barely be able to feel its presence. Cersei takes it off now, but keeps it clenched firmly in one hand as she wades through the waves and stands before the man, not daring to look away once he meets her gaze.

"Cersei of the House Lannister, you would this day consecrate your faith to the Drowned God?"

She had done it already, all that time ago, on her first night on the Iron Islands; had felt the God's blessing far more clearly than she ever had with any of the deities she'd been raised to worship. None of them had responded when she'd called, but _he_ had and it's an easy enough thing to give up; a faith that she had been told to believe and resent at the same time. The presence of something different, something better, makes it easier still. "I would."

"Kneel."

The shock of the cold water against her skin is almost soothing as she obeys and it doesn't matter, suddenly, that it soaks through her skirts and that quite so many people are watching it happen. Her husband must have arrived by now too, she's sure. If he had, he hasn't made his presence known; everyone is still eerily quiet. It must be disbelief, Cersei supposes – the sight of a Lannister kneeling for anyone isn't a familiar one, but she needs to be more than a Lannister now, and certainly more than a queen with her sights set on the Westerlands and little else. She needs to be _their_ queen.

"Let Cersei, your servant, to be born again from the sea as you were." She closes her eyes as the water pours over her face and drips down her hair and she doesn't need to hear his blessing to know it for what it is – _salt, stone, steel_. It's all inside her; always had been, it seems, if she dares to look far back enough. Had Jaime deigned to voice his concerns in person, he would have never stopped her. He knows her too well for that – still must know her, no matter how intently he had made sure to let her know that she had been the one to let it all wither away. _If he still cares as much as he claims to, he should have made it clear by now_. It would not fall to her to keep setting fire to everything at his whims, only to have her twin snuff it out again.

But he shouldn't matter now. Nothing should, come to think of it – it's her turn to speak again, and Cersei opens her eyes.

"What is dead may never die."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes: Ever since I played around with the outline some (as in, the order of events and what happens in which chapter - the plot itself is the same), I was trying to figure out how to write the next few chapters without making everything very rushed and crammed and mood swing-y or altogether too drawn out and I think I've found the solution. This chapter and the next one will be somewhat shorter than usual - like an interlude - and will be mostly strategy and introspection of equal doses, from both POVs, before getting back to the usual pace. Naturally, it's sort of angst-heavy, but hopefully this format will still work.  
**

* * *

_I hate the fucking North._

For over a year – nearing two by now, truly – he had been staying near Winterfell, leaving the newly-freed region and wandering into the Six Kingdoms (five by now, and likely to become four in the foreseeable future) only to returns once more, but it's yet to become anything but unbearable. _It grows on you_, Brienne had assured him, but it's an easy thing for her to say – for her, the beginning of Westeros's descent into complete chaos hadn't begun right in this castle. Worse, she hadn't been the one to start it.

Her presence – she hadn't been around when he had arrived, but she tends to stay closer to her Queen, typically – along with Tyrion's serve to make the return into it a little easier, but he isn't particularly thrilled with the familiar sights in front of him either way, especially not at the prospect of the Stark siblings debating over food and soldiers. He's had enough of such discussions in his time as both Kingsguard and Commander of the Royal armies and while he had been certain that he'd be inevitably dragged into it, it had been easier to hide away for the time being.

It's something he does a lot of, once he comes back up past the Neck – hiding away. It makes him feel dangerously purposeless, but it's better than facing the tension that his presence tends to bring about. He's a dangerous company to keep; Jaime had realised it a long time ago, but it's all the more obvious now that the tensions in Westeros grow higher by the day; now that, once again, a part of his family is to blame for it.

It's enough to bring him out of hiding, eventually – as per usual, he doesn't have much of a choice.

"Forgive me for doubting you, but this makes no sense. You're saying they're strong enough to take King's Landing, so why wouldn't they? Would your sister make her intentions clear if that was the case?"

"That is an excellent question."

"It's a _yes_ or _no_ question, Lord Tyrion." Jon Snow – where _he_ had come from is anybody's guess, but Jaime had already been far too exasperated to ask by the time this conversation had started – seems to grow more and more agitated as the day draws to a close, as if they hadn't chewed over this same matter for the entirety of it. "And what about the North? Winterfell has been attacked by the Ironborn before. My sister worries—"

"Her Grace has nothing to worry about. If _my_ sister is planning on taking over anything, it's going to be the capital."

"So why _hasn't_ she? You don't have the means to stop her, for all she knows."

"And she would know enough; we don't. I have yet to breach the matter with Dorne and this is giving me more time to do so, but I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you. I don't know why she would wait."

"Because it's not King's Landing she wants." The uncomfortable silence that the reminder of his presence usually triggers falls over them once more, but Jaime pushes through it. If they hadn't wanted to hear him speak, they shouldn't have let him have a say. It's always been the world's biggest mistake, since the dawn of time – letting a Lannister talk for too long. It's what's brought them all here. "When the Iron Fleet leaves Pyke, they'll be sailing for Casterly Rock."

"Yes, as a starting point. We still need to consider—"

"_No_, as an ending point." He doesn't quite believe it, truth be told, but it's not very likely that Cersei will ever set foot in King's Landing again if she has a choice, so it's not as much of a lie as he had feared. Tyrion seems more confused than offended by the interruption and it's enough to prompt a clarification. "Damion told me all about it. The Westerlands. That's all there is to it."

"That's quite a lot, wouldn't you say?"

It's Brienne's voice that breaks the disquiet and he's grateful, even if the matter she poses is likely to start an entirely new discussion if he's not careful. Jaime isn't sure he's got the strength for it – certainly not after a month on a ship. Neither Sansa nor Bran Stark are present, having retreated to make their deals in peace, but being surrounded by their advisers is enough to leave him feeling as if the room is suddenly crowded. "I would. But it's better than everything, isn't it? It'll be bloodless, at least."

If Tyrion had heard anything at all from the exchange, it doesn't really show – when he turns back to Jaime, his expression is so contemplating it's nearly dangerous. "Why would Damion discuss the Iron Fleet's movements with you?"

"He served under my command. Who else would he discuss them with?"

"I was under the impression that he doesn't serve under your command _anymore_."

_Definitely crowded_. "He doesn't. That doesn't mean he can't trust me."

"He certainly didn't trust _me_ with anything of the sort."

"You're Hand of the King, Tyrion, what did you expect? Cersei has named him Lord Commander, it's natural he would assume—"

"Excuse me, is this strictly _relevant_? We have important matters to discuss."

Tyrion finally redirects his gaze towards a new target. It's enough to let Jaime slump back into his seat as his brother sighs. "I should be the one apologising, Lord Snow; you're quite right. If you would all give me a moment with my brother. It's growing late as it is. We might as well continue tomorrow."

No one seems particularly eager to leave, but one by one, they shuffle out of the door. Jaime almost follows, but it would be much wiser to face whatever it is that has piqued Tyrion's attention now, given that the alternative is carrying it out in public. It's a bit too late to try and save every familial dispute from becoming a spectacle, but he's still willing to cling to the shreds of privacy they're occasionally allowed.

He's far less thankful for them when Tyrion turns on him again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Did it need saying? We both knew Cersei would want to head back home."

"_Home_ could easily mean King's Landing too. She spent half her life there."

And lost everything in the process. "It wasn't much of a life."

"Yes; last I spoke to her, she seemed to _despise_ the taste of absolute power." It's mockery at its core, but a single look in his brother's eyes is enough to bring out the bitterness and frustration that Cersei had somehow managed to wring out of every person who had ever tried to love her. "She might not be able to reclaim the physical seat she once held, but I don't suppose that it'll matter all that much now that she has no one left to oppose her."

"Dorne is still an option, as are the North's armies, should Sansa Stark decide to help." It's not particularly likely, given her – somewhat justified, Jaime has to admit – fear of potential raids, but the North isn't a force so easy to discard. "You're far from defenceless. And it doesn't matter either way; King's Landing doesn't particularly matter to her anymore."

"And what matters to _you_? I doubt Damion would have shared the Crown's immediate plans unless he was sure you would be on their side."

"I did nothing to convince him otherwise."

"I gathered that much." He would prefer it if Tyrion would occasionally get angry, Jaime thinks; properly angry at the possibility of being betrayed, instead of being resigned to the certainty of it. "If it comes to a war, you'll have to pick a side. You understand that, don't you?"

"Why should I?" It's easy to be flippant when he's staring intently at the table, steadily avoiding any attempt at connection from his brother's side. "The North is likely to remain neutral. I thought you preferred me here. What was it? _I'm happy you're happy_."

"I _did_ think you were happy. Content, in the very least. You might still be that; I don't know. But you won't be content to sit on the sidelines and watch this unfold. Whatever it was that Bran told you, did it tell you what would happen after—?" Over a year, and he still can't bring himself to say it. After King's Landing fell. Jaime shakes his head. "So you would have no reason to hold back this time. If we do end up at war and Cersei attacks the capital—"

"It's not war she wants." It would be a laughable statement to anyone else, but it's different with Tyrion. If there's one person in the whole wide world who would understand, it's him. For all their flaws and all the gaping divides between them, the Lannister children had always spoke a language of their own. "And it's not King's Landing, either."

"Then what _does_ she want?"

"What does everyone want?" _Home. Freedom. The ability to keep running and running and never having to look back_. Perhaps not everyone, then, but his sweet sister had always been a rather isolated case.

They had rarely spoken about home, back at the Red Keep. There had been a quick, rather pragmatic discussion before they had decided that it would be easier to give it up for the time being, but before that? It would have hurt too much and there had been weeks – months, years, sometimes – when their lives had only been held together by threads so fragile that everything could have fallen apart at the barest show of weakness.

The only time Cersei herself had brought it up had been the day he had returned from Dorne. He had stayed with her through the night, for once careless about any risk that his presence could bring. Would it matter? His sister had been dragged naked through the streets for her crimes as it were; he had been reminded of it every time he'd stroked her hair and had reached its abrupt end at the back of her neck as she had trembled in his arms.

He had never seen her cry quite so much before. Public humiliation hadn't managed to break her, nor had the worst years of her marriage or the death of her precious Joffrey (as much as he hadn't wanted to admit the undeniable, Jaime had always known it; she had loved the boy more than anyone else in the world, undeserving as he had been of it), but this – Myrcella and her sudden loss – had finally managed it, it had seemed. She had clawed at his shirt, fists clenching and releasing with each new bout of sorrow that came forward and Jaime had only started dozing into an uneasy sleep once she'd quieted, only to be woken again when she had spoken.

"Tommen was right."

"Hm?" Dragging himself back into the real world had been a chore, but he had managed somehow, sobering up entirely when he had met her frantic eyes in the sickly grey light of the near-dawn. "Right about what?"

"I should go back to Casterly Rock; leave him here on his own. You can keep him safe better than anyone else. He has his Small Council and Uncle Kevan—"

"_Cersei_." He had been horrified, if fully aware that it would be the last thing she'd need to see just then. She had always trusted him to be there, an anchor in the storm that was her life. She'd been the one to unsettle the sands he'd sank himself into, but it hadn't been an excuse to let her float away. "You want to abandon him here? You risked _everything_ so you could stay when Father wanted to make you marry, and now—"

"I'm not abandoning him." She'd disentangled herself from his grasp, suddenly cold, and had turned her back to him. He'd followed without a second thought, arms wrapping around her shoulders even when she'd tried to shrug him off. "It would be safer that way. This is my fault. I should have never— She warned me it would be this way."

"She?" She had mentioned a prophecy of some kind earlier, and a witch, but he hadn't asked her to elaborate. It hadn't seemed like a particularly good idea to bring it up in the middle of the night, either – he had had a voyage's time to get used to the pain; to replay the image of Myrcella collapsing into his embrace again and again every waking moment, no matter how much he had tried to set it aside to keep his sanity. Cersei had had less than a day. He hadn't been sure what to expect, but it certainly hadn't been _this_. "When did any of this _happen_?"

"Years ago, so many— It was just a stupid game. I wanted to know my future. One of my maids spoke of a witch that lived in the forests and I brought Melara with me so I wouldn't be alone. She warned me not to do it. I should have listened, but I didn't and what she said— I didn't understand, at the time. The king would have twenty children, she said, and I would have three. Gold their crowns—"

"—gold their shrouds." It still hadn't made sense, not to him, but he had understood. "Everyone dies eventually, and all Lannisters are buried in gold. It doesn't have to mean anything. You were a little girl. If she truly was a witch, of course she would want to scare you."

He had believed it, too, until she'd shaken her head, choking on another sob. "It's more than that. First it was Joffrey and it was not— he was not—" _He was the kind of person someone would try to poison_, she had surely been thinking, but she would have rather died than say it. "But _Myrcella_? She's never done anyone any harm, Jaime, they wanted to hurt _me_ and they took her instead— I shouldn't be here."

"Cersei, this is madness." Leaving her on her own in this state had been unthinkable, prophecies and children and kings be damned. He would have followed her if it had came to that, but he had never imagined it happening like this – their childhood home serving as her self-imposed prison before she would have to stand trial anyway. "You weren't responsible for any of this."

"But I was. None of this would have happened if I had never—"

"What? Met the witch? Had children? Attended a wedding?" There hadn't been a lot he could have said about Tyrion's trial, but she had been nowhere near worthy of such a mad thirst for revenge over Oberyn Martell's personal choice; he had been sure of that much. "Lived at all?" She had gone quiet enough to trouble him even further and Jaime's hold on his sister had tightened desperately. "There's nothing you could have done."

He could have said anything at all and it wouldn't have mattered. She had been far too lost to care. "Perhaps not, but the least I could do is _stop_. I'm going to lose him too; it's only a matter of time. I should go before I—" She'd stared down at her own fingers where they'd been gripping onto his forearms, seemingly surprised they still belonged to her, so cold to the touch that for a fleeting moment he had felt as if he had lost her too; as if she had been only a memory for him to cling on to, slipping further and further away from the world of the living the more grief and loss chipped at her. She had turned around to face him and her eyes had seemed colourless too – bottomless, terrified pits for him to lose himself into, once again welling up with tears. "I've destroyed everything I've ever touched."

_Not me_, Jaime would have said, had he been able to reach back into his own past, _I did it all myself_.

"Peace," he says at last, at Tyrion's unspoken plead for a response. "What she wants is peace."


	7. Chapter 7

It's already well past noon by the time the last ship sails into harbour and by then, despite the unrelenting sun beating down on her, Cersei's smile feels all but frozen on her face.

It had been somewhat refreshing to see her own bannermen's ships once again, as it usually tends to be, but she's more than ready for it to be over all the same. There's still a little time left – Euron and his gods-forsaken raid are enough to keep her in the dark about just how long it would take for her to sail back to the Westerlands – but calling at least one representative of the houses that had allied with her had seemed like a wise move all the same, to learn whether Casterly Rock would be in any way defended if nothing else.

But even that is over by now – this late into the day, there's only one arrival still pending and it's as dreadful as it's important. She had sent everyone else away save for two of the knights of her Queensguard, standing a respectable distance from her, close enough to interfere if such a need should arise and distant enough to not make her seem afraid. Lord Harlaw, she had been told, did not take lightly to being faced with anyone he deemed too cowardly to occupy his presence, royalty or otherwise.

Her time in the Iron Islands had certainly taught her a lot, but more than any kind of worldly wisdom, Cersei had managed to unearth an impressive amount of bad blood between her own people and the Ironborn. Marrying into the Greyjoy family had saved her from the worst of it – there had been at least two separate destructions of the Lannister fleet and the unfortunate case of Rodrik Greyjoy's capture and his subsequent fate, inflicted by one of her ancestors some century and a half ago – but the rest of the islanders had not forgotten or forgiven anything quite so easily. The Harlaws had been a fine example of that since the very start. Cersei had had no choice but to initiate contact despite her husband's warnings; the entire island of Harlaw had fallen under their command many years ago despite Johanna Lannister's efforts to wipe them out to the last man and trying to handle them through messengers and raven scrolls would be equivalent to losing. It's one thing to try and negotiate with mainlanders without being personally present, but no mainlander she had ever known had been as prone to indignant outbursts as the calmest of her current subjects are.

Still, Cersei finds, it's difficult to keep the smug smile threatening to break out at bay when the ship with the silver scythe greeting her proudly from its sails anchors itself less than fifty feet away from her. Sigfryd Harlaw, their current Lord, had done his very best to offend her without slighting his king as well, and had failed soundly by sending one of his salt wives to represent him when being summoned to take his place in a council. The woman had caught her eye back then – for her desperation to get back home more than anything else – and soon enough, she'd sent a raven back to ask to have her as one of her ladies in waiting, which Lord Harlaw had reluctantly allowed. Coming in person and bringing her alongside with him is as much of a defeat as she'll get from him for now, but it's enough for her. She would need to act quickly so as not to arouse suspicion and it's nothing Cersei hasn't handled before; nothing as intimidating as the man himself as he approaches her now.

"My Lord."

"My Queen."

"My Lady." She beams back at her while her husband lowers himself to kiss the tips of Cersei's fingers, the thrill and apprehension of being addressed by a title she'd never truly had apparently too strong to hide. Her hasty curtsy is yet another manifestation of it, just before she glances fearfully in Lord Harlaw's direction. _There won't be any more of that soon enough_.

"Your Grace."

"You are most welcome to Pyke. My royal husband would receive you as soon as you've settled into the castle and your lady wife may come with me if she wishes to see her new home."

Harlaw narrows his eyes at her and stays quiet long enough for Cersei to be tempted to offer a clarification before spitting out, "Will my _lady wife_ be returning to her home by the end of this visit?"

"If she so wishes, I would be happy to grant her a leave of any duration she chooses." She irritates him to no end, as she does with the majority of the highborn on the Iron Islands; he's made no effort whatsoever to hide it. She's too refined, too fond of talking in circles instead of making her point straight away and while the smallfolk seem to marvel at the change, it drives her supposed political allies to distraction. She's seen it in Euron's eyes too, especially at the start, when he hadn't been used to her yet, and it's more than easy to revel in it. "Her family must miss her dearly, I'm sure."

The mockery irks him further still, but it's not worth it to start a dispute over this; she'd relied on that quite a lot. Apart from this one, Lord Harlaw had at some point acquired two more salt wives and a rock one and had kept everyone but his Ironborn lady as little more than slaves. Few islanders would dare to kidnap a highborn girl at such an already uncertain time and losing her wouldn't affect anything but his pride.

Cersei had been introduced to the idea of salt wives shortly before her arrival, when she had asked about one of the women in the Iron Fleet's employ, only to realise that she hadn't served as part of the help in the true sense of the word. She'd entertained herself for an evening by asking Euron what kind of wife _she_ would qualify as and watching him stumble through the search for an appropriate answer, only to finally land on 'You're my queen', but the reality of it up close had made it all seem far less amusing. She had quickly learnt to distinguish them, not just by the distinct plainness of the native Ironborn, but by the vacant expressions in certain women's eyes, the frequent bruises, the wide array of appearances from the entire known world.

Madelyn Lastel – or Madelyn Harlaw now, she supposed – had caught her eye for several reasons. She had only been taken a year and a half ago, in the chaos when Westeros had been left without a ruler for a time, and had expressed the ardent desire to go back home as soon as possible when Cersei had managed to coax out some honesty of her. The fire in her bright blue eyes only seems to diminish when she looks at her husband, but she'll heal in time and until she does, it's unlikely she'll be more resolute to stay loyal to the person who had freed her more than anyone else.

The husband in question must be aware of that as well, if the loathing written all over his face is anything to go by, but his suspicion isn't enough to force him to break his peace with his king by insulting the queen outright. Not yet, anyway, and she would have to figure out a way to prevent it from happening when she inevitably managed to make him snap.

"As you will." He gives a stiff bow before departing. Judging the last, venomous glance he had given them both, Cersei would have worried that she would be one lady in waiting short by this evening should she leave him unsupervised, but it's not particularly likely to be a problem – after all, Madelyn wouldn't stay on Pyke for too long.

"How have you been?" She asks as soon as they're alone and the woman's expression brightens once more. She casts a quick look back towards the ship and then follows her decisively as they leave the docks behind and head for the front entrance instead.

"Better. He has not— He was angry," she admits at last. "But he wouldn't hurt me. Thought _you_ would be angry."

"I would have been." She's very young, little more than a girl, and women her age tend to be easily impressed by a queen who takes their side in a conflict, no matter how petty. Perhaps this time, she can keep it all from falling apart like it had when it had come to Sansa Stark. "I'm glad you're here now."

"So am I, Your Grace." Excitement steals its way into the sheer relief from before. "The last time we talked, you said I would be sailing north."

"I haven't changed my mind. Today, preferably, before anyone has had the chance to ruin the opportunity." It had been rather difficult to force said opportunity to happen to begin with and she is _not_ missing it this time. "And I want you to speak on my behalf."

"Surely there is someone better for the job. Don't misunderstand me, I would be thrilled, but—" She stops in the middle of the corridor, eyes lowered as she desperately tries to find something to focus on apart from Cersei's inquiring gaze. "I am nobody in the eyes of the people you want me to speak to."

"You won't be a nobody anymore when your time in the North is done," she assures her. It's a reasonable fear, and one she'd had to deal with before, despite the more fortunate circumstances of her own birth. Who can a woman be, once she's alone in the world with no one to rely on? It had started getting easier to answer that question the more time she had spent with no one to fully trust around her, but then again, it would have always been easier – there is a significant difference between Tywin Lannister's only daughter and the sixth child of a carpenter in the Riverlands. "You will be representing your own homeland as well."

It takes her a moment, but Madelyn makes a noise of acknowledgment once she'd seen through the plan. She's surprisingly quick, given the life she'd had, and even outside of all her manoeuvring, Cersei would have liked to keep her on her side as long as possible. "It would be easier to appeal to the King that way," she nods. "If he sees someone from his mother's birthplace."

_The King, and his sister along with him_. "Indeed." She quickly latches the door shut once they enter her study and picks up the sealed scrolls she had prepared. She'd had enough time to think her next move through and the sudden visit to the North had turned out to be a wonderful opportunity for her to gather exactly the kind of information she would need. "You will give him this – him, and nobody else." It's not as crucially important as the other bit of communication she had tried to initiate – still too sensitive for a raven – but it would frustrate Tyrion greatly to be left out of his king's correspondence. It would grant her a better grasp on Bran Stark, too, should he respond, and the last thing she needs is her brother's hands all over it. "And this to the Queen in the North."

It's easy to tell the messages apart – the second one is significantly thicker, even if the royal seal is unmistakably hers on both. It's a sensitive enough task that it would be far wiser to carry it out herself, but she _can't_. Not just yet, anyway – it's where Jaime is now, if her information is to be believed, and she couldn't possibly face him with a horde of Ironborn breathing down her back. Perhaps when she finally reaches Casterly Rock, there would be an opportunity—

And this is the last thing she should be thinking of now. It's the new king and Sansa Stark she's negotiating with for once, not her own family, and the sooner she pushes the thought of the family in question to the back of her mind, the easier it will be to handle each passing day. Thinking of home had never helped anyone get there any faster. She had seen as much less than a year into her life in King's Landing.

"I will, Your Grace. Is there anything else you would like me to deliver?"

"Wish my brothers a safe voyage home." If Jaime is quite so intent on following her with unsolicited advice through their relatives, then she might as well return the favour. Ever since Damion had brought her the news from the capital, along with the retelling of what their meeting had consisted of, the thought of her twin hadn't given her a moment of peace. It isn't much of a change when compared to her usual state of mind, truth be told, but she had still managed to find an ounce of comfort here and there in her existence before, when she had thought he would never bother to seek her out again. The possibility of it alone is enough to nearly drive her mad and, worst of all, it's unlikely that he had meant to do this – no, he had just wanted to interfere as per usual, resorting to action when his words failed him.

It's one of the many ways in which they're a near-perfect mirror of one another – her words had failed her too, in the end, just when it had mattered the most.

~.~

It's only after Madelyn's ship is well out of her sight and she's made sure that no one who could potentially protest had seen it happen that Cersei wanders away from the harbour and into the less frequented surroundings of the castle, still right by the water. Her cousin is already there waiting for her when she reaches it, of course – invisible as they tend to be most of the time, her Queensguard is always in the closest proximity possible – and she lets herself collapse right next to him, the fine lace that her gown is edged with disappearing into the wet sand as soon as she touches the ground. Back in King's Landing, it would have been an appalling lack of care – seeing the Queen waste such a precious garment on a whim would have been a scandal if anyone had seen – but there is no one looking at her now. It's a difficult thing, finding the pleasure in something as utterly miserable as her life tends to be on occasion, but she had slowly learnt to manage it.

"I saw you sent Lady Harlaw on her way," Damion starts at last, uneasy as ever with the long stretches of silence that her presence usually provides. "I would have come sooner, but your royal husband insisted on keeping me around the fleet during his preparations."

Of course he had. Euron's reins around her tighten just a little every time she steps out of line in a way he dislikes. It doesn't happen too often – she knows how to get a rise out of someone without directly provoking them into violence, but it still all feels like playing with fire on occasion. "My royal husband isn't particularly fond of leaving me unattended with my male relatives, though I suppose you've noticed that yourself by now."

For all his efforts to keep his expression unaffected, Damion's laughter – more of a half-restrained huff, really – bursts out before he had had the chance to school his expression into something more disciplined. "This is no laughing matter, Your Grace."

_It's my life. What bigger laughing matter than that?_ "You're still laughing, aren't you? It's good to see it," she assures him when he makes to justify himself. "I always assumed you would have been disgusted, once you realised that everyone had been right."

"I mean no offence, Your Grace, but it's been quite a while since I realised. Your brother was the only one around back then. If there had ever been any disgust to speak of, it died before we took Highgarden."

"How?" And this is a terrible idea, it truly, truly is. She doesn't need to speak of Jaime now. What she had needed had been to _forget_, slip back into the even, uneventful anxiety from before, back in the time when she had been living day to day with only her and Loren's survival in mind. It's that state of mind that had carried her through the destruction of King's Landing and the wandering from town to town; through her wedding and everything that had followed. She had survived it all without Jaime and the fact that he insists on barging back into her field of vision, no matter his methods, should be much more unwelcome than they are turning out to be. "By then, the truth was already out for everyone to see, but it must have still taken something else for you to _know_."

There has to be something else to it, Cersei thinks with an edge of desperation. The alternative is accepting that the realm had torn itself apart – that her family had been torn to shreds – over Stannis Baratheon's assumptions. It's not an easy option to swallow.

"He would speak of you sometimes. Back before we got to the Reach. It was a long way and— it's not an easy thing, Your Grace; marching half across the continent on the orders of a monarch they've never seen to a battle with an uncertain end. Men lose sight of their end goal on occasion. More so in an army, where many others feel the way they do. When they needed a reminder, Ser Jaime would make the rounds, as commanders tend to do, to lift up their spirits. He would speak of the glory awaiting them, or of the gold and the food they were going to seize for themselves and when he'd run out of promises to make, he would turn their attention to their Queen. It was all pretty stories to keep them at peace, no doubt, but it painted a beautiful future."

"All stories do." He had been so far away, back then. She had paced the halls night and day without a single piece of news to cling on to. The thought that any of this had occurred in that time – that anything at all had occurred then, in fact, other than the blood and fire and death of Daenerys Targaryen's first attack – is nearly enough to bring her to tears. It's a startling sensation; one that she had held back for so long that she had nearly forced it out of existence.

"Oh, they do. Trust me, I've heard my fair share of them. But back then, in that tent— it was so easy to believe, the way he spoke of the future you would build together. Back when I first arrived on Pyke, you asked me why I had decided to follow you." He meets her gaze this time, the memory fading away in favour of the picture she must be painting _now_. Given how directionless she feels, it can't be a particularly enticing sight, but it must be good enough for him. It always had been until now. "This is why. He believed it. It took meeting you for me to believe it too."

"I hope I can prove you right sooner rather than later." He must long for home too, after all these months – the Lannisters had always been strongest in their birthplace, even if it's just the two of them for now. Or three, really; more if she gets the outcome she's hoping for. Chances are, her son might never know anything but the Rock as a home once he grows up. Her priorities had shifted a significant amount since the day she had first realised that the possibility of him existed at all, but this, it appears, remains the same – there is nothing she would like as much as bringing her family back into their home. It's been so many years that it's terrifying to think of the emotion it would invoke when she does cross the gates, but Cersei carefully puts the fear away. It belongs to a woman she's yet to turn into; one who had finally claimed what had been there for her to take for years.

"You already have. Though, I must say," Damion ventures, his smile as daring as it is nervous, "I can't quite imagine what life will be like when there's no longer a goal to chase."

If Cersei had ever known the answer, she had forgotten it a lifetime ago. "We'll find out soon enough."

Despite herself, she rather hopes that Jaime might be there to see it happen. She had always enjoyed proving him wrong a little too much to let him miss it all.


	8. Chapter 8

It's not long before Cersei breaks her unbearable silence, although, much to Jaime's aggravation, what attention she does pay to the rest of Westeros isn't directed at him in the slightest. No, instead – as per Tyrion's invitation in the middle of their rapid correspondence exchange – it's just another envoy that she sends to the North, while Bran Stark and his court are still there. It's nothing too hostile, really, regardless of the tension that reigns over Winterfell once her people are invited in. Her actual emissary is a woman, young and rather nervous, a whole flock of Lannister soldiers following at her heels and, notably, "No Ironborn?"

"She wouldn't get on a ship while even one of them was on board," one of Cersei's men had scoffed when Jaime had asked, though he'd quickly sobered up afterwards. "I can't blame her, considering. Her Grace wanted us to keep the girl safe until she's sure she can return her to her family."

Had she been a slave, then? It's difficult to tell – despite her timid eyes and low voice, she has the confidence of a free woman and it's only easier to see when she speaks.

The king of the Six Kingdoms had decided to attend his own council meeting this time and his sister had followed his example. Sansa Stark is far more nervous than the newcomer, as if the mere mention of his sister is enough to taint her castle and she's far from alone in that sentiment – next to Jaime, her other brother is just as tense, chancing the occasional look in his direction when he's not busy looking over his siblings. It's still difficult to place together what exactly he's doing here week after week, but it's the last thing Jaime thinks of as Madelyn Lastel, as is apparently her name, gathers the courage to speak.

"My king, my queen," she greets, as if still unsure of the proper etiquette for this. Cersei had barely had the time to work on her, he'd say, and she lowers her eyes towards the scrolls in her hands before she hands them out to their recipients. "Her Grace sends her regards. I'm to represent her in any and every way during my stay in the North. Her credentials, if you will." Her blue eyes stray between him and Tyrion for a moment before she reaches out across the table with yet another letter. He doesn't need to take a second look.

"This is the royal seal," he confirms to no one in particular as the Stark siblings unroll their own messages. The Queen in the North's face pales even further at whatever it is that she sees inside, but it's not terror this time, nor the same dread that she'd had written all over her features on the day she'd been told of Cersei's survival. It's confusion instead, and a bit of interest, and Jaime ducks his head quickly lest a smile escapes. He can see his twin's touch all over the girl despite the years that had passed since her escape from King's Landing and she reminds him of her an alarming amount. It's easy to imagine what Cersei had seen with one look at her – the fragile outer shell and the determined glint in her eyes; the anxious hold she has over family and potential power and the world at large. It must have been like looking into a mirror and seeing a particularly unpleasant memory of her own past and it's nothing Jaime himself hadn't experienced before, come to think of it, once he recalls the absurd conversation he had had with Jon Snow upon the man's departure for the Wall when he had still been little more than a child. It's a frustrating thing, seeing someone carefully thread into decisions that had taken his life in the direction it had taken, and endlessly fascinating at the same time.

It's the King that speaks first and it's just the beginning of the scroll he'd received, but the sound of his voice is still enough to hush them all. "_As a sign of good faith, I send you one of your countrywomen in my stead_." He looks up. "Are you from the North, My Lady?"

"The Riverlands, Your Grace. Her Grace did me a great kindness. I meant to repay it as well as I can."

"A great kindness?" In the few times Jaime had seen the boy back in King's Landing – and during his frequent appearances during his stay in Winterfell – Jaime had seen whatever entity had kept hold over him slip away bit by bit until Brandon Stark had started becoming visible through the cracks again and he is still as damnably curious as he had been as a child, it seems. _Starks never learn_.

With one exception, perhaps. His sister picks up the thread of the conversation before he can prod further. "Are you free to leave? If you are indebted to her—"

"At any time, Your Grace." Madelyn chances another look around the table. "It would not be the wisest decision for me to be left without her guards now, I said, and she agreed. She thought she would have me deliver her demands for her in the meantime. Her Grace would have come herself, but she's intent on sailing back to her homeland as soon as possible."

_Her_ _Grace_ this, _His_ _Grace_ that. So many kings and queens had started dotting their presence over the maps of Westeros that they have almost arrived back at their starting point, with seven kingdoms ruling over themselves as they please. It's a pleasing image, Jaime has to admit, and one he and Cersei had indulged frequently when they had been too young to understand why they wouldn't be allowed to rule in their own right. They had fixed the crowns of the princess and princesses of the Rock that had once roamed their halls on each other's heads just to see how they would fit and his twin had laughed at the image of him bending his head under the gold and jewels she'd bestowed upon him. It hadn't lasted long – Cersei hadn't been allowed to remain a girl forever, even if the crown had slipped far less often off of _her_ head. Tywin Lannister had always meant to make a queen out of his daughter_. If only you could see her now, Father, setting war alight again for the power you would never give her._

Because this is what it is, truly, and it's Cersei's own wording that makes everyone stand on edge – it's not a negotiation she means to start; it's a _demand_.

"Is she on her way to _Casterly Rock_ already?" It sounds so scandalised, every word laced with disbelief, that Tyrion has to gather his bearings before he speaks again. "She might do well to remember that the Westerlands are still part of the Six Kingdoms, regardless of what my sister means to rule over."

"Not Casterly Rock, My Lord. Not— just yet." She either doesn't know enough to feel confident to speak on her behalf, or she'd been instructed not to do it, but it's a worrying idea all the same. It's an odd array of allies that Cersei has started surrounding herself with, each of them stranger than the last, and the fact that she had managed to earn such unwavering trust from all of them isn't really a surprise – he had seen her talk her way into alliances with nothing but her conviction that she could, the sharp twist in her inviting smile, and the intimidation of her past. "Her Grace's travels are her own concern. Your response will reach her no matter what, should you choose to give it."

"We will. I _did_ write her that I would rather— we will," Tyrion repeats, clearly heaving realised how fruitless it would be to try and reason with their sister when she hadn't even deigned them with her presence. This is what he had wanted, doubtlessly, to see her in person. He can't blame her since she's not precisely hiding now, but it's still difficult to imagine what could be more important than _this_. It amuses him to picture it, if only for a minute – his sister in all her southern splendour, surrounded by nothing but northerners and half-savages. Jon Snow would have been particularly perplexed by her, as evinced by both their initial meeting and the fact that he only chooses to speak up now.

"Would it not be up to the King to send a response?"

"It is, of course." Tyrion sends a look towards Cersei's messenger and then a fleeting glance towards Jaime, as if realising that he's in a potentially hostile company. It stings to be included, but not enough to make him flinch – he's borne enough of both his siblings's resentment over his supposed betrayal to seem relatively unmoved by it now. "It's just that I am not quite sure—"

"I am." Brandon Stark, who had been busying himself with his scroll – no, with writing down a response, it would appear – had finally pulled himself away from it to join the conversation of his kingdom's future once again. "I'm not going to war."

"Your Grace." Had he not known his brother better, Jaime would have thought he'd sensed panic in his voice, mixed with a strange, fond sort of resignation. "This is a usurper we are speaking of."

"Is anyone in the Westerlands feeling usurped? Not from what I have seen." It's impossible to tell whether it had been another one of his strange visions or if he had just spoken to his subjects, but Jaime manages to spare him a little admiration for the confidence either way. He turns back to their guest with a smile that should likely feel more welcoming than all-knowing but doesn't quite make it there. "My Lord Hand tends to drag negotiations out for as long as it suits him, but I can give you a response for your queen now, if you wish to return to Pyke already, Lady Lastel."

"I would prefer to wait until you're certain of it, if it please Your Grace." It's just as well that Madelyn prefers staring at her own hands instead of anyone on the King's council, or she might have looked even more distressed at the idea of displeasing anyone at all. "You must have a lot to discuss before you come to a decision."

It's the only excuse she offers as she pushes her chair back and exits the room, quickly followed by her guards, and Snow takes her place immediately so that he can be next to his sister, snatching the letter out of her hand as she shakes her head. It's impossible to look away, Jaime finds, in more ways than he can think of. For one, he's far more interested in that scroll than he could ever be in whatever long-winded offer of mock-peace his twin had doubtlessly offered the King of the Six Kingdoms, and it's more than that – there's something about the urgency in Sansa Stark's eyes that feels painfully familiar; an imploring demand that her half-brother bends to immediately. He lets the scroll curl back into its natural shape and nods; reaches for her under the table until she offers him her hands and suddenly, he _understands_.

It makes sense, now, why Jon Snow had come for a visit to a place that should no longer feel like home and had somehow forgotten to go back to his Wall and his exile. He has his duties, to be sure, but he also has a sister.

It doesn't surprise him in the least when the man speaks and what first comes out is, "If there is a war, the North will have to stand down."

Tyrion hides his grimace as soon as Sansa nods her agreement, but it's not soon enough for him to escape her glare. "Surely if your brother, the King, is in need of help, you would answer."

"My brother, the King, made his choice already." Now that she considers herself safe again, she clearly also feels much freer to speak her mind. "What _other_ choice is there?"

"There's _plenty_ of choice." None of it pleasant, judging by his tone alone. "And there is much less inevitability to this than you seem to imply. Regardless of what she might have convinced you of, my sister is just one woman. Though I've oddly never tried it, she must be easy enough to kill. A wise choice would be letting her take Casterly Rock and, in the whirlwind of the changing rule, easing someone into her household until they get close enough to dispose of her."

"Which would still leave her with a husband and an heir to rule in her stead." He shouldn't interject and this is not a conversation he and Tyrion should be having surrounded by these particular people at all, but he can't help himself. "You understand that, don't you?"

"I said that it's _possible_, not that we should do it." He should know better than to let his brother needle him like this, but Jaime still bristles when Tyrion goes further down his line of thought. "The boy is an infant. The Ironborn are not in the habit of keeping regents and one of the ever so faithful relatives our sister keeps around will soon try to take over in her husband's stead. More will come forward after that, each with worse claim than the last, and Casterly Rock will fall within the year as they all tear themselves apart inside it. The fact that Cersei's heart is still beating is the only thing keeping all of the Westerlands and the Iron Islands from getting at each other's throats. That would spare us the war as well. Killing one woman to save hundreds would be the easiest solution possible."

"_Now_ you're proposing this?" He doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of sounding betrayed, but it's not easy – not when this has been bubbling up for quite so long, anger flaring until there is nothing else left to hold him up. "Your _solution_ could have saved us all a lot of trouble two years ago."

He regrets it the moment he sees the flash of hurt in Tyrion's eyes, but Jaime refuses to look away – might as well admit to thinking it, now that he's had the guts to bring the horrible truth out in the open.

"The point I was trying to make," his brother grits out, the rest of the council forgotten as he leans over the table, "was that the easiest solution possible is not necessarily the wisest one. When I proposed Bran as the next king, I brought up the freedom of choice involved in deciding who rules over the ones doing the choosing. What would it say about me if I try to take that choice away now?"

"What would it say about _us_." It's a correction rather than a question and Brandon's voice is reproachful enough to startle Tyrion out of own vision of the future. It had all been hypothetical, of course, and nothing but more of his brother's usual thinking out loud, but it still feels like a betrayal and, to make it worse, one that someone else had now intruded upon. "I am _not_ starting a war, Lord Tyrion. If the Westerlands would like someone else to rule them, it's only right to let it happen."

"That is certainly admirable," Brienne allows before her queen had had the chance to bring her own say on the matter to the table. She's remarkably well-versed in all of Sansa Stark's concerns, as any sworn protector should be, and it's much easier for her to voice them – it comes off as attentiveness rather than cowardice if it isn't the queen herself being quite so concerned. "But there are still concerns that remain. Allowing Ironborn onto the mainland for good has its risks. The North has been subjects to their raids often enough, as has Winterfell in particular."

"I wouldn't call the Ironborn a lasting concern." If there's a hint of gloating to the words, then it's only fair – anyone reckless enough to trust Cersei with all their power and then give her precisely what she wants is a person who deserves to be disposed of if she so wishes.

"_I_ would." The Queen in the North had worked up the courage to share her concerns, it seems. "The Westerlands are free to have whichever ruler they please, but once she reaches the continent, what would stop your sister from marching on any other kingdom she chooses? Her men take great pleasure in plundering any place they find that they know they won't face consequences for; what is stopping them from doing worse once she gives them the chance?"

"They are not _her_ men." Their house – and their bannermen along with them – had always been too dignified for outright stealing unless they're truly desperate, and Cersei is above that by now, he's certain of it. "Her Lord Commander assured me that she has their respect. If their queen commands them to keep away, they will."

"And what happens if she doesn't?"

"She will. I'll make sure of that, if that's what it takes. This can be further negotiated, as I'm sure the King agrees."

"Indeed." Jaime dares a look in the boy's direction and regrets it as soon as their eyes meet. There's something unsettling about the knowledge that he's only here now – in Winterfell and in this world at all – because of a precious piece of information that he had given him, but it's even more difficult to bear it when he's acutely aware that it had only taken him this far. What he wants most of all is to return home and learn more of Cersei's policies just as he had assured everyone he would; see her build the life she had always wanted, at long last, and become part of it when she inevitably allows it. It's a perfect, seamless picture when he imagines it and it's all the more painful for it. If he goes now, perfect and seamless would be the farthest things from what reality has to offer him – which, for all he knows, is more years of a life she endures because of the circumstances she'd found herself cornered into. He wouldn't be able to take it and it's cowardly, so cowardly, to not want to face it. The realisation that his absence means that she's safer in the very least is a small comfort and he clings to it desperately enough to hurt.

But no one – not even her savage of a husband – would harm her over a diplomatic visit, surely. The silver lining is so thin that he's half-assured that it's just his imagination, but Jaime holds it close to his heart regardless, even more so when Brandon continues.

"Send for Lady Lastel. Tell her we've come to a decision."

~.~

Despite Tyrion's extensive efforts to outline a course of action for him, Jaime had managed to escape the politicians and their continued bickering once the council meeting had found its natural conclusion. His brother had pulled him to the side and urged him to make good on his word of seeing this through by staying Cersei's hand until her position could be secure and yet as limited as possible. No one else can keep this under control, he had said and had then promptly returned to the hall, as if it's obvious enough that further arguing would only waste his time.

_This_. _Her_ is what he means; no one else can keep _her_ under control, but then again, that doesn't make too much sense either. Jaime had never made enough of an effort to stop Cersei from doing anything that wouldn't impact them both disastrously to know whether she would let herself be swayed. It's not that she doesn't trust his judgement – there are plenty of aspects of ruling, mainly war, that he understands better than she does and that his twin had readily placed in his control – but that she's too cautious of having everything taken away once her iron grip over the situation has to loosen somewhat. It's an impossible thing to achieve once her trust in someone has wavered (and he doesn't have to be there to know that it has, not after he'd _left_ her) – she has enough gold that more of it means little to nothing, just enough power to seize her kingdom for herself without struggle and the influence that would give her her subjects's loyalty, and an heir to inherit to build a steady legacy for. It's much more power than she'd had when ruling from the Iron Throne, though he's not entirely sure whether she realises it just yet.

_Control_. It's such a flimsy, subjective power to have, especially when it comes to someone like Cersei. He had not once demanded it of her, even when she had offered, and she had – although he'd kept his memories firmly locked away ever since his visit to King's Landing, the images slip through now, too frequent and _typical_ for him to forget. It's a smug, shameful little thing, but it's there all the same; a habit of Cersei's from the countless nights they'd spent together. There are few things in life she enjoys as much as fucking and the frequency of it, in their later years in particular, must have made it at least a little more mundane, but it had never gone away, much to his pleasure – her gasp, cut off as if in surprise, when he enters her for the first time, and the near awe in her eyes as she seeks his gaze. It's the sort of connection she lives for, Jaime knows, and in those moments, she would have brought the sky down for him if he had asked. He never had; had only wanted to keep her where she was, and on occasion even that had proved to be too greedy, given the life she'd led, but it's a cherished image all the same – Cersei when he's the only thing that exists to her. Tainting it with trying to hold her back as one would a feral dog is beyond his capabilities, but it's not something he can explain to Tyrion.

Still, making the journey south seems inevitable at this point, dangerous or not. He had been putting it off for long enough and if someone has to ease the three newly shaped kingdoms into an alliance of any kind, he might as well take the job. The North won't miss him particularly and there isn't much he's leaving behind apart from the illusion of stability, but it still strange; the nervous, giddy anticipation that rises up whenever he considers it.

_It's peace she wants_, he had assured Tyrion when he had asked, _peace and freedom, finally_. It had seemed so simple then, almost as simple as the thought of keeping her on the Iron Throne and securing their future together, but he had assumed that he'd be less of a gullible fool about it when he'd been stung so many times. Evidently not.

_Peace and freedom_. He hadn't had either in quite a while, not fully, and it's another thing to anticipate; another thing that he knows his twin can give him even when she doesn't have it for herself. It's with that in mind that he heads back for the chambers where guests tend to reside – he doesn't have much he would like to take with himself and plenty he'll need to leave behind, but preparations need to be made either way.

It's only apt that Brienne meets him halfway.

She had been on his mind for the better part of the afternoon as he had weighed his limited options to see where they would take him, and he had come no wiser out of it, unsurprisingly. Ever since the war with the dead and the subsequent victory, he hadn't known what to make of her. She had come and gone of Winterfell and the North itself as she'd pleased and so had he and the connection he had crafted with her without conscious effort over the years had held, for better or for worse, even if the newer, physical aspect of it had put a strain he hadn't expected. It had thrown him off at first, only for the realisation to catch up with him gradually – _of course it would_. It must have shamed her; the fact that anyone could have guessed about this new development while she remained unmarried. It had all been so distant for him after so many years of laughing in that particular idea's face, but it had taken her quite a while to approach the same attitude. She had never made it fully, and it doesn't look particularly promising now, either – she's stone-faced when he insists on looking into her eyes when she speaks.

"Queen Sansa released me from my vows today," she confides at last and, despite his determination to deliver his own news as quickly as possible, Jaime finds himself frowning.

"Why would she?"

"The king's protection is inadequate, Lord Tyrion said when he arrived. He's in search of a better Lord Commander than he has now. She was happy to let me go if it means keeping her brother safe. He tends to be in danger much more frequently than her, I imagine."

"You never said." Had he known that she'd been planning such a thing, he could have... He's not entirely sure what he could have done, truth be told. "When did this _happen_?"

"Around the same time your brother convinced you to serve as his raven, I imagine, while his correspondence with the Iron Islands was taking place." Her expression softens somewhat when he doesn't respond, too taken aback to fire back at her. "Many wishes for a safe voyage home."

"Thank you." It feels too much like begging for a middle ground, like looking for a compromise he'll never get to keep, but, "There are still days before any of us departs from here, I imagine."

"There is still a little time, yes." Brienne looks away again and he can't hope to bring her back down when she's as resolute as she's clearly feeling; isn't sure whether he should. It's the same air that she'd carried ever since the meeting that he had slipped out of while Tyrion and Cersei's envoy had carried on with their verbal duel and the sight of it is as unnerving as her silence had been until now. "And though I hope for the same, they are not my wishes. Just your sister's message."


	9. Chapter 9

She'd dreamt of the storm again last night.

It had certainly not been the first time and Cersei strongly suspects that it won't be the last, but it's unsettling all the same, for the difference in the way it had played out if for nothing else. Her wedding night and the events that had transpired then haunt her frequently in her sleep, but the involuntary recollection had always been limited to the things she can actually _remember_; the feast, the storm, the sea, her own despair, the cluelessness of the following day. She had always woken up before it had gone any further than that – always, right up to this morning. It had begun just as every other time before, with the rain and wind and thunder raging all around her, the sea trashing wildly against the rocks, only the water had started rising eventually, boiling hotter and hotter as it had crawled its way up to her, until a shape had formed out of the waves.

_A_ _kraken_. She had seen depictions of it before, of course, hundreds of them as they had approached the Iron Islands, but it had been just a sigil then; a painting meant to inspire fear. Up close, it had seemed almost human, its tentacles wrapping around the jagged edges of the cliff face, not quite a climb but not too far from one either. Breathless with fear, Cersei had leant in closer, though it hadn't helped much – it had been unimaginably large, the shiny dark surface of its skin seeming to channel every lightning that had flashed above her head until the sky had finally melted into the water and surrounded her from all sides. The rest of Pyke had disappeared as well until it had been just her tower standing tall as the space between her and the beast had narrowed more and more.

When the kraken had looked at her, inches away from her face as Cersei had finally braved the sight of it, Jaime's eyes had stared back.

She'd woken up in cold sweat, then. It had taken her hours to shake herself out of the terror of it and by all means, it should be ridiculous to worry about the dream at all. It had been a night like any other – surely someone would have told her if an ancient monster had risen from the deep in her absence – and, as she recalls every detail there is of it, her perception twists bit by bit. Jaime's eyes are more grey and blue like her own, in the right lighting; a splash of colour unlike hers and Tyrion's solitary green and it's highly unlikely that it's her brother she's seen in her sleep. He's been on her mind for months now, in quite a different manner when compared how the thought of her twin had haunted her, but it has nothing to do with the life she's been leading for nearly two years now.

No, Tyrion belongs in a different realm entirely. It's even more obvious as she leaves the rookery with yet another scroll clutched in her hand and heads back towards the castle proper instead of her own rooms like she had been planning to. When she thinks of him, she sees King's Landing, endless, impersonal negotiations and everything she'd lost, the home she's yet to reclaim towering over it all. Her life as it is now is a thousand miles away from anything he's ever experienced and for months on end their occasional correspondence, direct or not, had managed to become another part of a routine she'd done her very best to become comfortable with. For all the travelling, the sudden familiarity with the people she rules over, and the change of scenery, there are countless days when it feels like the Red Keep all over again. She has the sea to resort to this time, right here at her disposal instead of a distant sight through her balcony window, but what use is it when she can't sail alone? Her time for acquiring such relative privileges is running out and once they get to the Westerlands—

Well, that's just it, isn't it? The time for figuring that out is rather scarce too, though she'd considered plenty of possibilities. It's Loren that troubles her most of all. Her husband she would handle; try to convince him that it would be best for both of them to rule over their own lands, perhaps, though she would rob him of his heir that way.

And what an heir he's become to them both. He's young, too young to understand much, and he would forget it all should she bring him home for good, but it doesn't feel quite right anymore. To be confined to a castle when they can have it all is precisely what she's trying to avoid for both of them. He had been given an opportunity that none of his siblings had had despite their better circumstances and Loren is as used to chasing sailor around ships to parrot Euron's commands to them as he is to sitting by her side near the throne and busying himself with any little task she would him. Hiding half of it away to suit her own needs is not an option she wants to consider at all, but it's the only one remotely palpable.

There is, by now, the matter of Jaime as well. She had received two messages – one from Brandon Stark himself, in the name of peace, acknowledging her as Queen of the Westerlands should she choose to take the title, and another, far less official, directly from Tyrion, informing her that Jaime had decided to make the trip to the Iron Islands and then follow her to Casterly Rock. He would deliver the rest of his intentions when he arrived, she had gathered and had then carefully tucked the message away as she'd made a turn for her husband's study. He would be pleased, she suspects, particularly so on the eve of this final move before her return home.

The room is a whirlwind of paper and iron when she enters; so much so that Cersei is briefly distracted from her goal as she watches him emerge from under the half-formed model of something she can't quite make out just yet. She locks the door before she speaks, ever so careful with sharing too much when she's not sure which of his guests are still roaming the halls, but her satisfaction shines through the news once she delivers them.

"The King of the Six Kingdoms has chosen to stand down," she announces, raising the scroll so that he can snatch it out of her hand, "as has his sister. Someone will be sent for final negotiation once we take the Rock, but it's for diplomacy's sake at best. They've both opted for peace."

The initial pleasant surprise had worn of so suddenly that it makes her tense in alarm. "The Queen in the North too?"

"Of course." Sansa Stark had never felt like as much of a problem as the rest of Westeros could be – her kingdom is still too young, too recently revived for her to risk her people's safety – but it had been pleasant to be proved right all the same. "They don't have the numbers or the strength. It was a matter of time."

"Then it's a matter of time before you take the rest of Westeros back." Thought alone is enough to make him smile, but the look in his eyes is still grim. "We should have waited. Taking over the North would be easier without a truce."

"It's a peace offering, not a truce. What use do we have of the North? The Westerlands have rich, good land and enough resources to last us centuries. A barren wasteland and all its people willing to revolt against me are a responsibility I can do without."

"And once we reach the Westerlands, where would you have my men go? Your bannermen are happy enough to work with the Iron Fleet _now_, but it won't last long if they're made to live side by side with them for good. As their king, I'm the one who should provide them with hunting ground."

In a way, she understands. Raiding and stealing had been part of the Ironborn's way of life for so long that they don't know any other way; keeping them restrained to their own islands would not be an easy feat. It's not worth risking her neck for, but it's a valid enough concern – there is nowhere else for them to _go_.

"I'll find a way," Cersei assures him, easing her expression into something more reassuring than anxious. "Once we are back on the mainland, the new borders will need to be defined. In the meantime, quite a few ships can reach the Narrow Sea without being questioned at all. Any of the Free Cities that they can reach will be richer than any region in a war-torn continent."

"It's a lot more effort, isn't it? And if the borders are decided by the time they return and they're not allowed passage anymore, would you go to war for _their_ home?"

"Without a second thought." Truth be told, she's not quite sure, but it's easier to be affronted than to admit it. It's an unpleasant reminder, for him at least – that he'll rely on her more than the other way around once she sails away from Pyke – and Cersei had preferred to keep it away from his attention until she had successfully arrived home with Loren by her side and nothing but further gains to look forward to. Despite her efforts, the thought of Jaime's presence had thrilled her beyond belief; the idea that he'd responded to her call, veiled as it had been, overshadowing the worry of how much he would unsettle the delicate balance of her cautiously safe existence. She hadn't thought of what would happen afterwards and neither had he, clearly, or he wouldn't have offered himself for this task at all, but she had still hoped for it to last a little longer before Euron could have the time to wonder about the same thing. "They are my people as well, now, and being plunged into yet another conflict is the last thing they need. We've been biding our time for months; it's unwise to throw it all away for nothing."

"Do you know what would be wiser?" It's the same indulgent, mocking tone Euron had used on her back at the very start when they had barely known each other; when every word leaving her mouth had seemingly amused him and frustrated him at the same time. It's a game Cersei knows well – _look away, don't bare your teeth, shut your mouth to begin with, all it does is make him angrier, all you ever do is make him angrier_ – but she'd grown bolder since the last time she'd had to play it. He wouldn't hurt her, not with intent, anyway, and for all his flaws, he's not Robert. "Marching to Winterfell while the little king's entire court is still there and killing them all. If my nephew managed it while rebelling against his own king, imagine what a proper army can do."

For an instant, she has half a mind to agree – control over all of Westeros is what he had tried to push her towards ever since the start and Jaime had likely already departed from the castle if he means to reach her before they leave for Casterly Rock and the chances of intercepting him are rather low – but it's the thought of her brother that puts an end to the idea as soon as it takes root in her head. It's Jaime he wants to get to, truly, no matter what other ambitions it's hidden away with and Cersei reaches out to cup her husband's face in one hand; forces the smile back onto her own face. It doesn't particularly matter how tortured it looks. Few people had ever been able to tell the difference.

"It would be efficient," she allows, if only to ease the blow. "But not particularly clean. How easy do you think it would be to keep the continent under control if we slaughter every other monarch on it? They want peace now, but there's no telling what would change if I turn from yet another queen into a conqueror. My brother—"

"I'd think he's spied on the rest of them long enough for now." He'd cut her off with a laugh, but there's a dangerous gleam in his eyes now; one that challenges her rather than making her step away as she once might have. It's different – he's different – but not different _enough_. "That's what all your lackeys assume he's been doing all this time, either way. Your Lord Commander relies on it a whole lot and _you_ never said a word about it."

The accusation – and it is one, no matter how welcoming her husband is trying to make himself look – makes her falter for all of a moment. He had been there, of course, when Reginald had given her his father's letter and had informed her of the rest of their family's whereabouts, but she had been too preoccupied with the news from King's Landing to pay anything any mind.

"It's what Damion does," she manages at last, voice feebler than before. "He keeps an eye on everyone I keep in contact with; it's how he upholds his vows and how he keeps me safe. Besides, it was Tyrion I spoke of. He's too important to be killed so unceremoniously. Jaime does tend to be unpredictable, but he's not worth the kind of carnage that another war would cause."

It might just be the most daring lie she's ever said; daring enough to hold, hopefully. Every ounce of blood they'd spilt to keep their secret safe had been worth it, no matter how often she had tried to deny it in front of either him or herself, and she would gladly do it again should the need arise. She had rather hoped that it wouldn't, but it wouldn't be the first time her own expectations had let her down. The last time, when she had braced herself to tell her twin she was with child again, she had been hopeful enough for the future for it to fill her entire being and she had paid dearly for it. Another similar attempt might just be the end of her.

Euron scoffs. "You said it yourself; they don't have the men to oppose us. They wouldn't expect it, either. You'll be a conqueror as it is; this is your best chance to get more than you were hoping for. And if it truly is the Kingslayer's allegiance that worries you, then you're wasting your time." He brings her closer by the waist; bites at the shell of her ear when she tilts her head back, half-fight and half-defeat. "I'm going to gut your brother like a fish."

~.~

The more time she spends on the edge of her window – or beyond it, as it happens every now and again – the more it reminds her of the very same view when she had seen it from her chambers as a child. It had been just as enticing back then, with its promise of something unknown and forbidden and the thrill that had followed, even if her heart had been far lighter, and she can easily lean into her memory whenever she needs to. She had certainly felt that need today.

So many years had passed since the first time; nearly too many for her to remember. It had been a day just like this one, ridiculously warm and beautiful given the whirlwind of emotions wrecking everything inside her, and she hadn't been alone for long – soon enough, Jaime had followed her to the cliff's edge, ready to share everything as always. He had been charming as a child, she had seen it even back then – the sight of his wide, eager eyes, his hesitant grin, the endless stream of energy beaming out of him – and his arrival had brought out a reluctant smile out of her as well.

"You shouldn't stand here," he had said with all the wisdom a four-year-old could produce. "If you fall without meaning to—"

_How do you fall and mean it?_ It had felt incomprehensible; almost as strange as the loss that had plagued her, and understanding wouldn't fully arrive for over a decade. "I would drown," she had conceded, "and then I would be gone. Like Mother."

"Gone where?" His confusion would have been endearing if she hadn't experienced the consequences of the same cluelessness less than a day prior.

"Dead," she had clarified. "_Gone_ means _dead_. And that means never coming back."

"Not ever?"

She had wanted to lie; try and spare her twin the heartbreak, but what use would that have been? She had been kinder with the news, at least. "Not ever. It's what Father says."

Cersei had expected him to be devastated, as much as she herself had felt, but instead, Jaime's eyes had widened in terror. "Then you mustn't go. I don't want you to never come back."

"I wouldn't," she had assured him. It had always been half a lie, but she'd been too young to realise it back then, mercifully enough. "I wouldn't leave without you."

"Swear it!"

"I swear it."

He had changed his tune a few years down the line, of course, when they had been too stupid and carefree to remember death as the threat that it is. Still children enough to forget that it had ever been an option, from what she can recall, and Jaime's smile had turned wicked and tempting; exactly the sort of smile that could have convinced her of anything. She can almost hear his voice now, if she closes her eyes, and feel the warmth of his hand in hers as the very same sea rises invitingly towards her and recedes to reveal the golden sands below. _You just have to jump_, he'd whispered, low and nearly seductive, already half-aware of all the things he could make her do, _and the water will be there to meet you_.

She had finally understood, though it had taken her a little more time. She'd been the one to bring her brother to the cliffs outside the Rock the day before they would have to leave for King's Landing to face her future husband and the reality of her wedding. She would enter the Great Sept as Cersei Lannister and emerge as a queen, and queens, to the best of her knowledge, did not tend to jump off of cliffs to amuse themselves. They had both been older, then, and already familiar with war and all its terrors, but none of it had mattered, if just for a little while.

The sea had called to her even back then. She'd been just a girl still, easily thrilled and ready to do anything (not much had changed, much to her dismay, not deep down below the pretence of caution), and she'd refused to close her eyes as she'd let go of Jaime's hand and made that final step.

No matter how hard she had tried, no matter how many years she had spent clinging to life after that, Cersei had never managed to replicate that precise sensation again.

The water had rushed towards her faster than anything she had ever imagined. Her heart had raced quickly enough that she'd been sure it wouldn't survive the fall, but she'd remained whole, somehow; had had enough time to twist around in the last possible instant, just in time to reach out in a wordless invitation to Jaime a hundred feet up into the sky, right before she'd broken the surface and her breath had left her entirely.

_Silence, at last_. It had been the sweetest bliss she'd ever felt outside of her brother's presence. For a few blessed moments, nothing had existed but the shimmering blue surface above her and the relentless rhythm of the underwater currents in her ears. Nothing had mattered, either; not her marriage or family name or the fact that she could easily never see her home again. She had been nothing and no one, at least before a hand had been extended towards her and she'd gripped it to pull herself up.

The first gulp of air she'd taken had been sharp and cold and painful and Jaime's arms around her had been the only thing helping anchor her and, while she'd gasped desperately for breath, he'd started laughing in that infectious way he'd had; the one that had always infuriated her beyond words as much as it had made her soar.

_He's on his way_. Tyrion had said so and if her brother had managed to get on a ship already, he would be _safe_. Protesting too much about Winterfell and a potential raid would only draw more suspicion and put him in more danger and really, she should be above trying to protect him now. Even if he had decided to join her after all, he had still left her to die when it had mattered most. It would serve him right if she were to do the same; answer his indifference with some of her own. She had never managed it before – indifference is an emotion so foreign that it's nearly incomprehensible – and had never attempted it when it had come to _him_, not even when she had been as angry as she could get. Now that she's far more desperate than she could possibly be angry, it's not even worth her consideration.

It would be so easy, too; to just forget. Cersei had been content enough to do so for months after his betrayal in an effort to keep surviving through everything the world had thrown at her and the mere mention of him had blown her relative peace to bits. It's no wonder that Euron had thought that the idea of killing him wouldn't be upsetting to her at all – anyone in their right mind would have _hated_ him by now. Instead, she had clung to every sign of his continued existence with the same kind of unshakeable certainty that had already betrayed her once. Jaime hadn't been there in her most desperate hour, and yet—

And yet, nothing had made her more ecstatic than the latest news from Winterfell. She'd wanted him here for _months_, even when it had been with the sole purpose of telling him that she would prefer to never hear his name uttered again instead of enduring his vague advices passed on through various members of their family, and any encounter she had imagined had had him brimming with life as always; the only way Cersei had ever known him. Trying to imagine him dead is as difficult as imagining one's own death, she had found when suddenly forced to consider the possibility – it's a wasted effort. If it ever happens, there wouldn't be enough left of her to comprehend it.

It wouldn't be much of a loss at that point, if she's being honest. Her life had never been worth anything at all when by itself – not to her, in any case – and Loren's future is set for him with or without her. Perhaps he would fare better than all the rest of them without her there to guide his hand into an uncertain claim and a rule he wouldn't be fully prepared for. After all the deaths she'd left behind, her absence might just be his best chance. Robert had never felt any fondness for the children he'd perceived as his, but it's different now. Euron would make an Ironborn out of him, and a king as well if she's to leave this world without making him doubt who had fathered the boy. Fighting back would only harm everyone further. It always had. It's a simple enough fact, one that had been repeated to her so many times to her, too, and she'd never once listened, always with the stubborn belief that it wouldn't last forever despite her blind stumbling into the future; despite each and every time she'd managed to dig herself further into the consequences of her choices.

_This is as close to home as I'm ever going to get_. If Jaime weren't there to see it happen, she would never see the Rock again. It would be far more painful to step through the front gates and introduce their son to what he'd always been owed and do it all alone. Cersei had brought him into the world, had cherished every day she had got with him as the unexpected gift it is, but she wouldn't manage to this for him and continue lying for the rest of her life. Becoming her mother instead seems a far more preferable option, all of a sudden – better a fondly remembered, flickering presence of a woman he would never know than a living ghost for him to suffer with for years on end.

She has her answer now; had had it for nearly as long as she'd had a crown on her head. It's rather easy to fall and mean it. What would they tell Loren? Better yet, what would they tell her people? Her husband would assume it to be an accident, no doubt. H had never realised how close she can stand to the edge without slipping past it. He'd always enjoyed life too much to imagine someone – her, of all people – putting an end to it without any hesitation because it had taken a turn for the worst. The thought alone is enough to make her smile. He would never again be able to claim that the Drowned God had approved the match when challenged; not if the sea he loved so much had been the one to finally snuff her out when everyone else had failed. It would be a puzzling notion after everything she had already survived, but believable enough – only one of them is Ironborn, after all. Loren, on the other hand—

"Your Grace?"

The voice makes her flinch violently enough that the world sways around her for a moment, but Cersei recovers soon enough to ease the panic in her expression before she turns around. She had never heard the door of her chambers opening at all, but there the girl is regardless – one of her fussier handmaidens, the sort that tends to wander around to be helpful even when told to leave the royal family undisturbed for a time. She'd rarely been fonder of a servant than she feels just now and Cersei stifles a hysterical bout of laughter at the thought – _you of all people_.

"What is it?"

"The King was asking after you. He said you seemed unwell when he last saw you; if you would like me to send him to you—"

"There's no need for that. Tell him that I'll come to him shortly."

"At once, Your Grace."

It's just one last time. It's easier to think now that she's not quite as caught up in her own mind and the world seems far steadier than before; she would need this last night to make sure that it would stay that way.

"Jacline? Stay in my chambers tonight and keep the prince with you. Don't leave the castle under any circumstances, no matter how often he asks for something. I will come take him later."

"The whole night?" The girl's endeared smile dies a quick death at the scowl she gets in return – all her handmaidens love to coddle him too much to refuse anything he demands – and she nods hastily. "Of course, Your Grace. I can keep him safe."

_You better_. There isn't anyone she can trust here outside of the people she'd brought with her and even her best bet isn't too spectacular. "I'm counting on that."

~.~

As spring had slowly started blossoming into summer, the relentless heat reigning in every room on Pyke outside of her own chambers had become more and more difficult to bear. Cersei had been reminded of it yet again as she'd gone to return to her marriage bed, but it's too late to do anything about the heavy, layered gown she had chosen for tonight apart from picking at her collar in yet another restless, aimless gesture. _A prisoner by choice, even in my own clothing_. It's a bleak image, though not as bleak as the sight of the room as she enters – the fire is lit yet again, throwing odd shadows around the King's apartment. She finds her way to the balcony easily enough after all this time; leans on the window frame without a word just quietly enough to startle her husband into facing her.

"There you are. If your girl hadn't found you, I might have had to send a search party."

"I had quite a lot of work to do. We're departing soon enough, I presume; leaving the Iron Islands unattended would be inadvisable." The admission that she's willing to leave to follow his plan gets her a grin and a kiss, though it doesn't last long once she continues. "I spent some time with Loren, too. He wouldn't understand why his parents have suddenly disappeared unless there's someone to explain it to him, and he needs to hear it more times than you'd expect." She had experienced it before; the endless repetition before a piece of information managed to stick. It would certainly take him a while and it would cause a lot of confusion, but he'd manage in the end. _Lannisters always do_. "Children his age forget so easily."

"He doesn't have to." He'd started toying with the endless laces to her dress, frowning down at the elaborate shapes they make. The fabric is stiff and restricting, exactly as she likes it, and Cersei reaches around to release the knot at her back, one hand sliding over his to keep him still. It's a habit he and Jaime share, describing all sorts of future atrocities and trying to be alluring at the same time, but she had never been afraid to give her brother a piece of her mind if it became too much. She hadn't ever considered biting her tongue in his presence – not given that both of her marriages had turned it into the only option. "He can come with us. Let him see what is being done in his name."

"He can see when he's older. He can't understand any of it now as it is." The bulky shape of one of Euron's rings, bearing his house sigil, digs into her palm, but she refuses to budge until she'd moved his hand to the loosened front of her gown again. Every sensation feels heightened now – the heat, the relief of the wind coming from the sea, the hot touch to her bare skin, the long, twisting tentacles carved into the metal under her fingers – and her heart is beating so fast that he must be able to hear it already.

"Are you leaving him with your Lord Commander, then?" It's a challenge, but there's a bitterness to it that she hadn't seen coming. Not bitterness – _anger_, white-hot and barely suppressed, all for her behalf. All because of her, too, but the two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive by now. "So that he doesn't see the rest of his mother's family slaughtered for treason?"

_Slaughter_. Of course. She hadn't needed a confirmation to be sure of her suspicions, but it had come just in time all the same.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I? He has enough people to look after him and Damion and his men can be fine teachers when they want to." Her grip tightens, but her other hand's touch turns gentle. It's a comfort, though for whom it's intended, Cersei can no longer say. "I would rather teach him how to rule before he learns how to kill."

_That_ brings a laugh out of him and she responds. It's a short, breathless sound, but it's all she can manage. She can feel her nails digging into her own skin now, nearly drawing blood, and it's only fitting, really. "Is there any difference?"

"There has to be." There's not enough space and she hadn't thought this through – hadn't had the _time_, no matter how much she had tried to draw it out. It's easier than it had been during what she remembers of her lessons, but then again, her weapon is must lighter now. _She_ feels lighter all over, as if she'd finally been allowed to breathe out after months and years and _decades_ on end. "I just haven't found it yet."

By the time realisation dawns - it's right there, in the incredulity of his bright blue eyes, in the sudden, desperate grip around her body - it's already too late. It really is a woman's weapon, this sword he'd given her. The blade tears through the fabric of her skirt easily enough when she pulls the handle up and it's too small, too _quick_ to be stopped when she twists it around until it's turned towards him and it tears through skin just as easily - she watches, equally horrified and fascinated, at the wound her own hand had inflicted as blood starts seeping through Euron's clothes before he can make a sound. It was the right place to hit, at least. She had wanted it to be over quickly.

When he loses his footing and falls, Cersei follows him.

"You," he gasps and he's _laughing_ now, more blood staining her hands as he coughs it up and she should really try to keep him quiet, but she _can't_. If he's got anything left to say, she might as well hear it. She had never wanted to owe him anything, but she owes him that much at least. "_You_."

It's a curse, as it is so often when it's about her, and it stings more than it should.

"Me," Cersei agrees. That stings, too - she had always meant to end it somehow (him, somehow), but not like _this_. "I never saw it coming either."

It doesn't take long after that. She'd done too much damage for him to keep breathing for long and there is far too much blood for him to fight back, but she waits until she's sure it's over; until his chest is still and she can feel his heart stutter through its last beat. She can't linger for long - she'd picked out a victim (a murderer, in fact, even if he doesn't know it yet) before she'd entered the room and it's only a matter of time before she draws his attention. The sooner it is, the better, though it would require quite a lot of noise.

It should be easy enough, Cersei thinks as she wipes her hands on the skirts of her dress to get a firmer hold on the sword and turns it towards her own body. She would have to be careful - it's a thin line between a survivable wound and a mortal one and she's not entirely sure she can balance herself on it - but still convincing in her suffering, both literal and emotional. And how can she not be? Despite everything else the gods had decided to send her way, she'd never been subject to this specific kind of pain. She hadn't had the time to prepare for any of this – just this morning, she'd considered inflicting something that she would never recover from. Being careful when so much is at stake – when there are rather a lot of things she's looking forward to – is just new enough for her to be unsure if she can manage it.

It's too late to wonder now. _I've gone too far to stop_. Her fingers shake around the handle but still manage to hold the blade in position against her lower stomach and once she's drawn a breath – enough of it to turn into a scream when she needs it to – Cersei thrusts it in.


	10. Chapter 10

He's nearly out of the gates by the time Jon Snow catches up with him.

There's not much he's going to miss about the North, truth be told, but it's still a strange thing; leaving behind a place that had served as a temporary home for nearly two years. Jaime had hated most of it – the aimlessness, the hostility, the _cold_ – and despite the dangers of his next destination, seeing the last of it is more a relief than anything else.

"Lannister!"

Of _course_ he's not allowed to do it quietly.

He halts his horse and casts an impatient glance down at the man, ire dissipating when he notices his ragged breathing. He must have ran all the way out through the courtyard and now that he's finally reached his destination, he hands him a piece of paper, expression guarded enough that he can't quite determine what he's about to read.

As his eyes skim through the message, apparently addressed to the Queen in the North, his body grows faint enough that he has to tighten his grip on the reins lest he falls off the saddle. It's short and to the point: an attack on Pyke – not a war declaration, just treason. The King had been killed, the Queen – wounded but stable enough to take over for the time being. There's just one missing piece.

"The child," he says, a question and a prayer. If it is treason, then the heir is the most vulnerable target – just an infant boy, _his_ infant boy, Cersei's change of heart when all she had wanted had been to fight and die. _If I've lost him, I've lost her too_.

"Your son is unharmed." Snow sounds nearly bored, but there's a kindness to it that hadn't been present before. "Rather convenient, I think."

"You? Or Sansa Stark?" For all his supposed experience, he's still the same body he had been when Jaime had first met him – he's still capable of taking anything at face value unless she steers him towards the supposed lie beneath the surface – but there's less of the morbid awe that he'd felt back then and more of an understanding that Jaime had never seen before. _Oathbreaker_. _Kingslayer_. It must be easier for him, his Targaryen queen had actually managed to slaughter the city before he'd stopped her from going further, and being near his sister had clearly made it easier still. It's a natural progression of events, it seems. "Your Queen's ever so suspicious."

"I serve no Queen," he counters immediately, as he had every time someone had questioned him on the matter, though he sounds guiltier now. Ned Stark had been just as obvious, if less bold about it.

"Neither did I, for a time." After everything that had happened, it's unlikely that his encouragement would have any credibility to speak of, but it makes Snow look even more torn, some of the contempt usually painted on people's face when family is mentioned in front of him seeping out in favour of faint, reluctant sympathy. "Go back to your sister, Lord Snow."

It's high time he does the same.

~.~

The Iron Islands had barely changed in the decade since Jaime had last seen them. He'd go as far as to say that they hadn't changed at all, but there _is_ a slight deviation, at least on Harlaw where he first sets foot.

It's where the first signs of Cersei's presence start to appear.

The banners catch his eye at once – a flag with the Greyjoy sigil greets him at the harbour, but the gates of the castle are decorated with both the Lannister lion and the body of a man dangling from a rope on one of the spikes. Though he'd clearly died elsewhere, he'd been there a while and Jaime gets his explanation as soon as one of the workers on the boats approaches.

"The Queen's serving justice to the traitors. Wouldn't leave anyone in peace until she saw him dead."

It's only then that he sees the sigil on the man's cape. He must have been the Lord of this island once, before he'd managed to anger the royal family beyond repair. "Is he the one who murdered the King?"

"One of his men, but he took the blame. Must have been trying to get rid of the Queen instead. Everyone knew he hated her." When he doesn't respond, too caught up in the implications, the man prods further. "You wanted to get to Pyke."

It's not a question. For all he knows, they might keep track of everyone making such a request given the tension in the region. "Yes. As soon as you can."

"For what?" There's no one to answer; by the time he turns, the sailor is already striding back to his boat. He's not alone – he wouldn't be able to row it on own and he clearly doesn't expect the effort from Jaime, though he'd made sure to hide his golden hand, and it's impossible not to wonder what the locals see in him. It's been a while since he's had a chance to see for himself, but compared to these people, he might well still resemble their Queen enough to be suspicious.

There isn't much time left to wonder, however, and he climbs in before he can talk himself out of it. _It needs to be today_. He can almost _feel_ her now that he's this close; a two-man crew is nowhere near intimidating enough to stop him.

So he sparks a conversation despite his better judgement, acutely aware that he has no idea what he'll find once he's back on dry land once again. A scroll, a dead body, and a pile of rumours can't do much when it comes to a place he's been afraid to even approach for so long. He had always explained it away to himself – Cersei's life had been in danger before and there's no way to tell if that's still the case; the best he can do is ask.

It's another thing he'd always wanted to know, really – what _Cersei_ looks like to them. _She's well-loved_, Damion had told him, but how much of it had kept after their king's death he's yet to see. He had watched her from the side for so many months during her reign, perched like a doll on that enormous, ugly chair of hers, as her people had made their announcements and demands, and had often wondered what it would have been like to take their place.

"The Queen," one of the men scoffs when he finally dares. "She's a Lannister. Very nice to look at and completely mad."

"Careful." His companion seems more amused than reproachful, although there's still an edge to it that Jaime can't quite define. "Or you'll end up like Harlaw."

"If she makes it."

"She'll make it."

"How would _you_ know? You've never met her."

"Of course I have." There's a hint of pride to his tone now; so near to gloating that he's once again reminded of the bloodthirst that tends to plague these parts. "I was there the night of the attack."

"Like hell you were!"

"I was! She woke the whole castle; wouldn't let anyone talk over her until she was sure she'd get her revenge and still didn't shed a tear when she sent the King away into the sea. It just made her angrier. Could barely walk with that wound still bleeding everywhere and still started asking about the kingsmoot as soon as he sailed away."

"_Lannister_." It's a good conclusion as any, it seems, and one of them spits over the edge of the boat to seal it. Jaime cleans his throat, suddenly uneasy. Of course had been scared and a frightened Cersei is a furious one, but the doubt that he had managed to keep at bay for so long still manages to settle in.

"The kingsmoot?" He asks, rather feeble. "It's today, then, isn't it?"

"It sure is. 'S a joke, really; they'll give it to her anyway."

"_If_ she makes it."

"There's no way she won't. From the day the King brought her here, he was always saying that the God had taken to her as well. He must have known she could do it."

"Never let the rest of us make sure of that, did he? He wouldn't let anyone touch her. What's the point of having a Lannister wife if you won't share her?"

"If you'd ever wed a Lannister woman, you'd have known the answer to _that_."

It's an unceremonious exchange, so unapologetic that it enrages him as much as it makes him gloat, though he'd never admit it out loud. Completely mad, but you still want her. They're all half-savages here, he'd found that years ago; of course they had grown fond of her.

As they approach Pyke and it morphs into a distinct shape instead of the foggy blur that it had been so far and the hint of shouting begins to reach his ears, the thought of what he's going to find there starts pestering him more and more often. _A kingsmoot_. What would Cersei have to make it through? He had been taught about the Ironborn and their way of choosing their ruler, Jaime's sure, but it escapes him now, as all of his father's lessons tend to do when he truly needs them.

"There they are." One of the sailors nods towards the still-distant shore and the large swarm of people there. "If you want to watch, you'll have to hurry."

"Watch?" What is there to see? As far as he knows, it'll be talking and more talking; he'd much rather get to his sister when she's on her own after they've finished their stupid ceremony and tell her everything, do everything, that he'd held back for so long.

"Have you never seen the Ironborn crown someone?" He gets a wide, wicked grin in return for his confusion. "The queen might be the first with the guts to try it out of what whole bunch."

**END OF DAY ONE**

"I have no doubt." It doesn't matter what obstacle is put in front of her; Cersei would be always reach out to meet it if it's power and safety waiting for her on the other side. It's not difficult to imagine her doing the same to prove herself here – she'd spent a lifetime doing that to the rest of the world, after all.

It doesn't take much longer to reach Pyke, even if their destination is quite far away from where he wants to be and Jaime pays them both far too much, enough to likely raise suspicion, in his effort to get there as quickly as he can, but it doesn't matter anymore. Soon enough, they'll all know who he is either way.

The island is about as lifeless as he remembers it, rocks and already sun-burnt grass populating the landscape from end to end. The sound of voices, increasingly agitated, reaches him once more, all male save for one. It's as controlled and cutting as it's always been and it thrills him in the same distant, tentative way that seeing her from a distance had all those months ago. It's not truly, fully her unless he can reach out and take her in his arms, but it's been enough for so long; now that he doesn't have to settle for it anymore, it pales in comparison.

By the time he nears the shore again, the arguing has stopped and everyone has quieted down – so much so that from a distance, they're nothing but the greyish silhouettes that they had been the last time and, as Jaime catches his breath and starts his descent down the hill, his eyes wander towards the centre of attention in their circle. He can't see her yet, but she's bound to be there. She always is, when the crowd is this thick.

The Lannister soldiers circling the rest of the men part when he nears them. There's no sign of recognition – for all they know, he could be yet another local lord who had joined their council a little too late, though he hardly looks the part – and for the time being, he's grateful. Getting lost in the sea of faces would certainly work in Cersei's favour should she see him before she's done with her doubtlessly victorious speech.

It's precisely what he'd expected, but the place is still eerily quiet as he elbows his way to the heart of the circle. Someone moves and is quickly chastised and that's as much of a warning he gets before he steps into the clear space in-between the Ironborn.

He'd had no choice, really. He could have been looking for anyone at all and his eyes would have still fallen on her first, before he'd recognised anything else in his surroundings. In the sea of grey and brown, Cersei is a bloodstain bright enough to blind him – crimson, golden, and, for once in her life, completely still.

It is her, there's no doubt about that. He can't see her face from here, but the veil of blonde hair shielding her features is proof enough, sodden with seawater as it is. The gown as well – it's a paper-thin silken thing, plastered against a body he knows better than anything else in the world, but she's not moving, not even to breathe, and he understands what the man from Harlaw had meant. No one else would have been daring enough to brave a coronation like this one.

But she couldn't have done it either, surely. There are countless ways for a queen to prove herself, she's done it enough times before and even if the people she reigns over this time are far more difficult to please than the mainlanders had been, surely she could have thought of _something_.

But she hadn't. She _hadn't_, and he's oddly detached from the thought of it – for all his fears and elations and anxieties, he'd never expected to feel quite as betrayed as he does when faced with the sight of her body, still dripping from the final sacrifice she had made for the crown she'd reached out for her entire life.

It dawns on him, finally, what his father had told him all those years ago. The Ironborn drown their kings before kneeling, just to be sure that their god would approve of the choice they'd made. It only makes sense that they would do the same for the queen they'd picked as well, but it's all wrong – Cersei never would have, if she hadn't been sure that she would make it. It's a superstition, nothing more, and any mainlander in their right mind would have held their breath, pinched their nose shut, done _something_ to block out the water before it overwhelmed them. It's such a simple solution that any Lannister worth their name would have found a way to cheat the death asked from them. It's the same scandalised denial that had plagued him after King's Landing had fallen, now even stronger with the knowledge that Cersei had been informed of his arrival. Had it not been for the sight he's been presented with, it would have been a ridiculous notion – that she would let herself meet such an end, any end, when she had known that he would be there to see it.

Bit by bit, reality settles into place. He's still numb to it and the world only rushes back in when one of the Lannister soldiers to his left shakes his head and makes to step forward. She _could_ have been holding her breath, but it's been too long – it would have been impossible to stay that way so long and survive. No god would interfere with death to the degree they expect this one to do it and she should have _known_, should have waited, should have given up just this one time—

"Nobody fucking touch her," one of the Ironborn barks and the silence shatters what little peace he had managed to gather from his anger.

It's impossible to keep himself from speaking, then.

"What does it matter? She's dead."

She's _dead_. He's seen death so many times that it should be an easy enough assessment to make – she's not breathing, she's not moving, and they'd _drowned_ her; she's dead. It's a rather simple process once he tries to imagine it all unfolding, too, but the last piece of his puzzle still fails to fit – Cersei couldn't have possibly let any of this _happen_ without having her sights set on each and every way out.

Dazed, Jaime follows his soldier's example and tries to near her. _She never would_. There's no way she would be so horribly still and quiet if only she hears him there. Despite their last, bitter goodbye, despite this stubborn thirst of hers that he had never understood, despite death itself, she would never leave him like this when he had done everything in his power to keep her safe. She must have realised, must have known, but perhaps she hadn't – perhaps he hadn't done a particularly convincing care out of it if it hadn't been enough to change her mind and it's very nearly worse than losing her; the idea that it had happened before he'd had the chance to tell her all about it.

"Of course she's dead, that's the point. Step back before I—"

Before he can think twice, Jaime shoves him out of the way hard enough for the man's armour to dig into his palm and pushes past the last few people that separate him from his sister and he's so close now, close enough to feel the scent of the sea still clinging to her body just as someone pulls him back by the collar and hisses a warning in his ear, but it doesn't matter – their ridiculous ritual doesn't matter, their belief doesn't matter, nothing, truly, nothing but her and she had _left_ him here. It hits him, at long last, that there's nothing he can do – for all his efforts, all the times he'd tried to change nothing but this one threat she'd always held over his head without even realising it, the only time it had truly counted, she had left him behind.

"Cersei." He's sunk to the ground now and he's so breathless that she's the only one who could have possibly heard him. He hates her, hates her more than he's ever hated anyone in this world; hates her almost as much as he loves her. Through the shimmering curtain of her sodden hair, her eyes stare blindly back at him. She shouldn't be there at all, not anymore, but he can see the same sharp, wilful glint in their depths that had plagued her their whole lives and Jaime grips onto it hard enough to hurt. _That's it_, he urges her through a battle that must be long over already, _fight back. Fight back, if you've ever loved me_, "Cersei, _please_—"

With a great gasp and a desperate lurch forward, his sister wakes to the world once more.

Everyone moves backwards, almost reverent, and Jaime follows, disbelieving and elated and so relieved that he could cry, before Cersei manages to stumble over him. She rolls onto her stomach, brings herself to her knees and heaves out the water still sticking to her lungs in several pained coughs, one hand braced on the sand and the other clutching at her chest as if she still can't shake it off. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot and fiery with life as each new breath shudders through her body and when she looks up, triumphant, the crown in the Drowned Man's hands is already being placed on her head as her subjects voice their recognition. It's a cacophony of sounds – the chant of her name, just her name, and the '_Long may she reign_' by their countrymen following in its wake, and all Jaime can do is follow along, sing his praise with the rest of them, alone only in his reasons.

She had listened, of course. No god could have dragged her back from death, but she would have always done it herself if it's him asking. Doubting it had been as sacrilegious as believing that death could keep its hold on her at all and he would have hated her all the more for nearly making him let go of that belief if only he hadn't missed her quite so much.

"You promised me an estimate, Lord Merlyn." Her voice is still rough, but level enough to make them all fall quiet again. There's a coolness to it, too, the kind that always follows in the wake of other people's doubt in her, and the man she'd addressed squirms in his place.

"A week, Your Grace. A fortnight at most, if you would prefer."

"A week will do just fine." She rises to still shaky legs, still dripping wet, and grants them all a smile just distant enough to be both a promise and a threat. "Make sure you're ready by then. We've wasted enough time

**END OF DAY TWO**

as it is."

"As you wish." Lord Merlyn offers a hasty bow and, after a wave of her hand, the crowd quickly disperses. There's nothing more for them to do here – the Queen has given her first order and now that they've accepted her, the thrill of watching her silent, motionless fight for her life against their god is gone, replaced by the kind of unquestioning devotion that his twin tends to inspire in anyone willing to believe in what she's promised them. It's easy for them, as easy as breathing, and he's still frozen on the spot as they depart around him, eyes fixed on Cersei's form as she catches her own breath. He can't approach her, can't do anything but watch, drinking in the proof that everything he'd seen until now had been nothing but a temporary state, and when she turns to look towards the sea and faces him instead, everything around him screeches to a halt.

He understands, now, what they had seen to convince them that she would survive. If any god had ever walked this world, she's staring back at him through his twin's eyes.

"Jaime?" Her astonishment cuts through him, almost as sudden as her first gasp had been, and she stumbles towards him just as he gets to his feet, arms stretched out towards her. She's shivering and beaming and the uncertainty lacing the acknowledgment _hurts_, even if it's his doing alone. "You _did_ come."

"Of course I did." Had he truly made her doubt? It matters little, at least for the time being, by the times she's in his arms, her presence surrounding him from everywhere. The mad rhythm of Cersei's heart against his ribcage makes him choke on a sob and all the while, she's there, hands clutching at his sides desperately, the familiar, light scent of summer and sea still clinging to her hair when Jaime buries his face in her shoulders. She's so impossibly warm, burning, really, and he holds her tighter still, until he can't remember any her that's different from this, here, now. He grips her by the shoulder, more helplessness than anything else. He had been so close, _so_ _close_ to losing her. It would have been the only unforgivable thing she'd ever done and just the risk of it, even retroactively, is enough to make him furious. "Are you _insane_?"

She's still shaking when he lets go. It would have made sense either way, she could be freezing or crying or terrified, and it's only when she looks up that Jaime sees it for what it is. His sister is _laughing_; a clear, genuine, infectious thing that he hadn't heard in years. It might just be the most beautiful sound in the world, second only to her voice when she speaks.

"No," Cersei says, the denial muffled by his chest once she lowers her head again, happiness mixed with the incredulity of someone who had jumped to their death and had grown wings instead. "I'm alive. Jaime, I'm _alive_."

~.~

The walk back to the castle proper is a short one, and thankfully undisturbed. He'd followed Cersei through four separate rope bridges, several steep staircases, and a number of locked doors before they'd reached what he imagines might be her rooms and in that time, though the strange giddiness that had taken over them both hadn't managed to dissipate, it had in part given way to the grim reality of their surroundings. His sister's tower is as isolated as it gets; a lonely, jutting rock at the very end of Pyke, half at open sea already, housing her chambers and nothing else and it's impossible to squash the thought of what it must have been felt like all this time, for someone like her, no less. She had always been used to cages regardless of who the keeper of the keys had happened to be and the images already forming in his head dissipate by a fraction in the face of her sudden liveliness as she pulls him forward decisively and steps past the soldier at her door.

"Leave us," she demands, gaze hardening when the man hesitates. "This part of the castle is to remain undisturbed unless the news you bring is crucial. Have the prince sent to me by nightfall."

"Your Grace." Clearly torn between the anxiety of leaving his charge and the fear of angering her further, the guard abandons his post a moment later. Pleased, Cersei leads him through the entrance and locks the door behind them, leaving Jaime to trail a few steps behind her. There are plenty of things for him to say, '_this place has made you reckless'_ being the first that comes to mind (although that's likely more her husband's fault than that of the island itself, whether he would like to admit it or not, because it's so like Cersei to only follow the worst example imaginable), and not one of them feels remotely safe. Finally, he settles for, "You need better protection than this."

If she had heard him at all, it certainly doesn't show. His sister rummages through her belongings, looking for something he can't determine, and the picture she makes is as alarming as her elation had been – the driftwood crown still rests on her head in stark contrast with the rest of her regalia, and she is _not_ going to do this now. If she wants to play the queen, then perhaps it's time she turns to one of her closest advisors, provided that she still considers him that. "Cersei, are you listening to me? This place is a trap in the making; it's no wonder it's so vulnerable."

"I don't need you to tell me how to protect my own castle." Finally armed with what she had been looking for – a scroll, nearly flattened by both time and the amount of paper piled on top of the table near the window – she faces him again. Whatever had been left of the pure, unadulterated joy she'd felt by the seaside is quickly dissipating and Jaime nears her tentatively in an effort to reverse what he'd done before she'd tried to shut him out again. There are a million things he should be thinking of, countless questions that he should be asking, but the world had rarely felt narrower than it does now.

"What do you need from me, then?" It's both a challenge and a prayer. _Tell me what you want me to be_. "There must have been _something_, or you'd never have asked of me to come."

"I didn't ask anything of you; I just wished you a safe journey home. I'd rather hoped that two years would be a long enough time for you to decide what that would mean for you." Her tone is indifferent enough to fool just about anyone, but when Jaime reaches out to run his hand through her hair and lets it trail down to her chest, her pulse still races, bird-like, under his fingers. For once, she's as scared as he is, and it's a perversely pleasurable image. "I must say, it's a puzzling choice you've made, after months and months of hiding away, giving directions for each and every thing I did that made you uneasy." She thrusts the scroll out between them and he can make out enough of Damion's summarisation of their correspondence to wince at the sight of it. _Of_ _course_ he had told her; what Lord Commander in their right mind would not? "What I needed was for you to be here. I didn't need advice or scolding or you squabbling with Tyrion over what piece of land belongs to whom, I needed _you, here_. All you did was leave. My safety is none of your concern."

"_Safety_?" There's so much that she doesn't know, so much that he'll need to explain, but it's easier to give way to his anger instead. It can only be kept at bay for so long. "Is this what you call this? Barely surviving an attack and then sacrificing your life for a crown within the same month?"

For a brief, triumphal instant, she's startled into silence. It's short-lived, as her surprise tends to be. "I don't expect you to understand. I had to. If I'm to ever keep Loren safe—"

"He would be particularly safe as an orphan surrounded by Ironborn, I'm sure. Did you not think of him, at least?" And he should have really asked to see the boy before voicing his outrage, can see in the contempt in Cersei's eyes that she can see well enough that it's about _him_ instead. He'd had his reasons to stay away and it's all easy enough to explain; nowhere near to the betrayal he'd nearly suffered at her hands.

That same contempt only grows fiercer and it takes a shake of her head for Jaime to realise that it's not directed at him at all. "I took the consequences into account, regardless of whether I lived or died. But," and, oh, it must be difficult, having to admit it; having to face the fact that they're one and the same in the way she detests more than anything, and yet, "I thought of you."

It should make no sense to him, of course, but then again, neither had any of his reasoning so far. They have all the time in the world for explanations and excuses and for now, he leaves it all behind; gathers her in his arms once again instead and waits until she lets it happen before leaning down for a kiss he'd waited for for the better part of an infinity.

Cersei's grip around his shoulders, when she responds to his caresses, is so vicious that it hurts and it's enough to make him laugh into her mouth once her lips part under his and her teeth graze over his tongue; enough to make him push her back towards the bed, rough and impatient and only barely cognisant by the time she hisses at the way he paws over every inch of her body. It's a sobering sound that even the frantic, hungry look in her eyes can't diminish, and Jaime falters. "You're hurt."

"It doesn't matter." Cersei sinks on her back under the canopy, face flushed with the strain of a wound she doesn't want to admit to, pulls him down on top of her until they're exactly where he'd wanted them to be, and she must be in _agony_. Whether it's the remnants of the sword that had struck at the core of her or the mere fact of his presence, Jaime can't tell just yet, but perhaps this is precisely what she thinks he can't understands; the story she wants to tell him – perhaps there's no difference between him and the weapon at all, in the end, if they'd both made her bleed quite so much.


	11. Chapter 11

The first thing that had occurred to her when she had drowned, Cersei is quite sure despite how fuzzy and distant the memory is even so soon after, had been that Euron had lied to her. Death had been anything but peaceful.

Perhaps it had been something else, too; the Drowned God choosing to punish her for murdering the one he'd chosen last. It had been a fair punishment, too, drawing it out – she had felt like a weightless, bodiless being, floating and raging and trashing against the nothingness that had surrounded her, all the while she'd sensed it swallowing her bit by bit. The mere notion of being stuck between this world and the next had always terrified her far more than any of the seven hells and there's nothing to keep her from falling now – not her family, not her own will, _nothing_ – and it had been a far bigger threat than any faith she'd ever been coerced into following had posed before. She had been able to feel every moment of it, her body and heart and mind struggling against the abyss, and had let it all pass her by as she'd sunk deeper.

That part had been easy – letting the sea in. The water had long since filled her lungs, brushed against every inch of her, inside and out, and even the Drowned Man's grip on the back of her neck had disappeared. She hadn't fallen apart so far, but even that hadn't seemed particularly distant now – there had been nothing left _but_ the sea, no matter how hard she had tried to fight it. In the end, Cersei had stopped trying. It had been better than the fire, better than her crumbling castle, better than never having tried at all. She has Loren to show for it, at least, and they can tell him that she'd _tried_. He wouldn't remember, but it has to count for something.

_Jaime_, she'd reached out one last time as death had wrapped its tentacles around her, one by one. Unlike Loren, she hadn't hoped that he would ever quite understand, and if she could have just explained— It would have made all the difference in the world, truly, despite the knowledge of how furious she would have made him. His presence wouldn't have been enough to stop her from proceeding with the coronation given that earning the Ironborn's complete devotion is the only way to ever feel safe on her own here, but he could have _known_. After so much time spent being angry and spiteful and so hopeful that she'd been choking on it, it's fair, she thinks, to expect him to come at the have a sense for the right time for once in his life. _Jaime, if you've ever loved me—_

The darkness had retracted so quickly that it had hurt, blinding light racing in in its stead, and when Cersei had opened her eyes, the world had been on _fire_.

It had been difficult to make sense of it all, at first. She'd gasped for breath, clawing at the earth beneath her fingers for purchase until she'd found her footing, and the reality of it – the sun, the sea, the _life_ around her – had been overwhelming enough that for a few moments, all of it had ceased to exist. The air wheezing through her throat, the rush of her desperate heartbeat, the cheers filling her ears, had all been a relief so sweet that she had almost collapsed back under her own weight, but she'd waited patiently for her crown to be placed on her head again instead, weighing far more than it had when she had first worn it.

_It's mine now_. The thought alone had been heady, now that she'd been chosen for good. The crown and the kingdom and all its power; the blessing she had asked for despite everything she'd done. Perhaps the Drowned God hadn't cared all that much after all, or perhaps he'd approved of her sacrifice. No matter, one way or another – she had lived. She'd paid the price and faced the threat it had posed and, at long last, a god had paid her _back_.

And had done so tenfold, it had appeared a moment later, when she had turned back towards the water and Jaime had stood in front of her instead, eyes fixed on her and disbelief written over every inch of him, as stark as her own, it had seemed.

_Jaime_. After everything she had done to keep him alive – all the blood spilled, the lies that had followed, the sudden, violent thrust out of the dubiously comfortable life that she'd kept trying to mute out in the hopes of preserving her sanity – it feels like too much all at once. Regaining her life a piece at a time had been the best she'd been hoping for and instead, she'd received him, intact and _breathing_ and as desperate as her, if his iron grip on her is to be believed.

It had become less obvious through the months, but it'd never disappeared fully; how much she'd missed this. All of him, every single inch, but _this_ most of all – his arms around her, keeping her still, keeping her safe. _If this is what was waiting for me on the other side_, she'd thought, face pressed against his chest as he'd berated her, voice shaking as much as her body had, _no god could have held me back_. Her twin's warmth had washed over her along with the familiar flutter of his heartbeat under her skin when she had clung to him harder and she'd been _whole_.

Despite his best efforts to keep her in that state of mind and get her to think of her own safety at the same time, Jaime had managed to both irritate her anew and endear himself to her and dragging him down with her when she falls onto her back on her own bed seems like the only possible option, even if it only makes him fuss further.

It hurts; that much is true. She had rather hoped that dying and being reborn would bring her body back to its healthiest state, but the wound in her stomach still burns – bleeds on occasion, too, if she pressures it, though she'd done her best to avoid it so far – and Cersei minds less than she'd readily admit. She appreciates it for the reminder that it is of how far she'd had to go to get here and the thought alone is enough to make her claw at Jaime's shoulder as she tries to rid him of his shirt. He doesn't know, won't ever know if she gets her way (she won't, not in this – he'd already tried to ask and it's all she can do to keep the questions at bay for now), but she wants him to feel her spite for what it is all the same. _This is why_, she nearly screams when he hisses and buries his hand in her hair; tugs in retaliation until it stings, _this is why I did it. _In the end, this is what it boils down to, no matter what else this gamble could have cost her._ You. Always you._

After the emptiness that she'd faced, that terrible state of not-being, every sensation feels like an assault on her senses and Cersei relishes in it all – the softness of the sheets under her, the wind whispering its way through the room, the sea crashing against the rocks below and Jaime, Jaime most of all; the sunlight in his hair, his bare skin pressed against hers, the familiar scent of him, the burn of his stubble when he stops kissing her for long enough to press his mouth against her throat instead, hand sliding down her body. She's so wet that it wrings a groan out of them both when he brushes his fingertips over her core. The desperation in her twin's kisses sharpens further, then, and Cersei finds herself smiling, one hand curling in his hair as her entire body clenches around him.

It's a strange kind of relief, knowing that she's wanted as much as she _wants_, and it's not at all surprising when Jaime breaks away and looks up, the urgent glint in his eyes melting into something gentler, though the fire in them burns just as bright. He presses further into her hold like a cat when she tugs on the strands in her grasp, but doesn't move; touch skirting around where she needs it most. When she makes to speak, he merely slips out of sight again, his hot, wet mouth trailing over her chest, briefly making its presence known on the sides of her breasts (he's toying with her, plain and simple, and it's so like him that she could cry), and down her stomach until he's comfortably shouldered his way between her thighs, withdrawing his hand only to replace them with his lips.

"Jaime." His name leaves her on a sigh, but it's no use – his tongue spears her open, the tip of it flicking over her clit like a promise he has no intention of keeping, hard enough to make her yelp and buck into his face as pleasure shoots through her, sharp and intoxicating. "Jaime, please."

He likes to hear it, she knows, more than he'd admit to, but all it does is make him pinch her inner thigh in reproach. "I thought we were meant to be careful."

The vibration of his warning against her cunt brings a shiver out of her, the feel of his grin against her skin as infuriating as it is enticing. "If you mean to keep me quiet, you've somewhat lost your way."

"No," he concedes, "I don't think I want you quiet." It's strangely blunt, as far as admissions go, and she squirms; makes yet another attempt to pull him up by his hair, to mixed results. It makes him tremble, his forehead resting against her lower stomach as he finally crawls back up her body and braces himself over her. "Fuck, Cersei, I've missed this."

It sounds so fervent that it leaves her breathless and she brings him down so that their lips meet again, biting her own taste clean from his mouth. He can make her wait if he truly wants to – on several memorable occasions, he'd drawn it out enough to bring her to tears – but it's been far too long for him to try it now. In the back of her mind, there are a thousand things that should be taking precedence over this, but she can't bring herself to care when he's right _here_. Some of that anger and resentment she'd stored for so long still simmer under the surface now, but it's not at all difficult to push them to the side when there are so many ways for the emotion to pour out of her without indulging it in the slightest.

"Cersei," he hisses again, and she's not entirely sure if he's begging or admonishing her. He should have known better than to tease her, really – he's too preoccupied with her kiss to notice when she takes her hand off of his waist and wraps it around his cock instead, far too rough given how hard he already is. For all of a moment, she thinks wistfully of flipping them over and sucking him off, but Jaime puts an end to that particular line of thought soon enough, a half-muffled whimper forcing its way past his lips as she ends one of her strokes with a twist that makes him curl in on himself and freeze to the spot. "You— This isn't what—" She waits, unmoving, as he nuzzles against her collarbone and finds his words again through his ragged breathing. She's yet to actually _remove_ her hand, but they're not in a hurry – she lets his fingers dance over hers, basking in the warmth that he seems to emanate. "_Cersei_."

"Have something in mind already, do you, brother?" It's been a while – years, really – since she's talked him through an orgasm with no other stimulation to speak of, but if this is what he wants, she's more than willing to oblige. It makes sense, too; she can't quite get enough of the sound of his voice, either.

"Stay still," he grits out, trusting back into her touch lightly enough that she knows it's for his own relief more than an encouragement for her. It still makes her grin when he groans and does it again, the mindless rhythm of it more entrancing than she'd anticipated. It frustrates him, that much is clear, and that, in turn, is enough to tell her that he'd thought of this before. When she makes another attempt at throwing him off, his hand shoots up to hold her by the wrist and pin it to the headboard, expression growing satisfied as she finally settles down. "Stay _still_."

It should have annoyed her. It had been so long – the morning before the summit, if she's honest – since the last time she'd had the chance to do anything of her own volition and the majority of fantasies she'd entertained over the months had involved her taking all the control she possibly can to make up for it, but she should have known better than to expect anything different. She'd never been too good at resisting Jaime when he truly wants something and he seems so determined now that it makes her go breathlessly quiet.

"There you are." It sounds too reverent to be patronising and that's the only thing that saves him from her ire; Jaime's fingers, where they're intertwined with her own, loosen their grip enough to turn into a caress until she lets go and he moves incrementally closer. It's just enough for him to be able to thrust inside her and Cersei masks her moan as well as she can when she surges up to kiss him, but there's not much else to be done about it – it feels so unbelievably _good_, to finally be whole again, that as soon as he breaks away in order to watch her and picks up his pace, there's no hiding the way her breath catches on every gasp he forces out of her; the way every new touch makes her burn all over again.

There's nothing like this. She arches up in yet another fruitless effort to get impossibly closer, one of her hands clawing at his shoulder blade while the other roams between their bodies without much input from her; exploring places she knows better than she knows herself. It's intoxicating, this freedom, and each reaction she induces from her twin makes it even more so. She's greedier than she's ever been with him and thankfully, she's not alone.

"Cersei." He can't seem to tire from saying it and she can't remember her name ever sounding quite as sweet as it does on his tongue now. His eyes flutter shut and she reaches up to map her way over his features with her hand as she watches him relish the touch. Pleasure tends to overwhelm him rather easily, had done so since their first tentative attempts to explore each other's bodies, and watching it happen nearly every time had always filled her with an indescribable sort of tenderness; the dedication it shows taking her breath away more effectively than any conscious attempt to arouse her possibly could.

"Jaime." For all single-minded his focus, he's far too smug to not notice what he's doing to her, not with the way her fingers dig into his sides, urging him on. It's not enough, it's never enough and all the while it's too much – for the first time in months, her body feels alight and it's almost painful; this bliss that only takes her higher and higher. Every push of his hips seems to drive him impossibly deeper and it's a good thing, really, that she'd gone through the trouble to drive everyone out of the tower before coming in. They'll all know either way and she can't really hide an already public secret for long, but she can't let anyone hear her either. This is theirs. The thought of any of it reaching anyone else in the castle feels almost like a betrayal.

He braces himself on one elbow and leans even closer with a grunt, reaching down until he can match his hand's strokes with his thrusts, brief and careless enough to nearly drive her out of her mind. Cersei pushes back at him with everything she has, each thrust bringing her closer and closer to the edge. She's still distracted enough by all the sensations to be caught by surprise, in the end, and Jaime winces as she bites down on his shoulder to keep herself from screaming, but doesn't let up; fucks her through it until it feels like she won't be able to take it for a moment longer.

Her entire body feels oversensitive now, every nerve set ablaze, and all she can do is cling to him all the harder as Jaime takes his pleasure. Now that she's not quite as desperate with the chase of her own release, it's all the more pleasurable to see him unravel; to watch his own urgency as it reaches its peak. She keeps up her strokes through his hair, kisses a line over his jawline just to watch him tremble with the onslaught of sensation. It doesn't take long for her to be ready all over again and he _knows_; can recognise her body's needs as well as he can recognise his own, so it's truly no surprise when he reaches for her again, this time even more unceremonious than before. _There you are,_ she echoes wordlessly, _just a little more_.

"Cersei," he warns, voice so breathless that it makes the frantic racing of her heart pick up its pace even further. His fingertips tease her almost as lightly as before, in direct counterpoint to the rough rhythm of his trusts and she whimpers, the sound just helpless enough to make her anger flare up before her pleasure burns it all away. "Come for me." From the sound of it, he might need it more than she does and the thought makes her clench around him desperately. Jaime's breath hitches at the feeling, the effect of his words etched onto his own body. "Now, _now_, I'm—"

With a final thrust and his fingers pushing so deep inside her that it almost hurts, Jaime spills his seed inside her, a long, drawn-out groan following in his orgasm's wake as she tightens her hold around him and follows him over the edge. She feels too exhausted to do much but keep her arms wrung around his back to keep him near as his body is wracked with the remnants of his release, but just that is enough for now, it seems. She can feel him still twitching inside her and it's enough to bring a lazy smile to her lips when she feels his lips on the side of her throat, mouthing aimlessly at her skin as he catches his breath.

The discomfort of being separated can't be postponed forever, but Cersei's still quietly grateful when Jaime pulls away only to crawl up next to her and throw the covers over them both. It's nearly hot enough to be entirely comfortable without them, but it's a habit that had followed them all the way from childhood – it's easier to imagine that they're all alone in the world when there's something separating them from the rest of it. Jaime watches her with content, sleep-heavy eyes and for just an instant, she feels as if she could spend the rest of forever like this.

"There's still some time until nightfall," he says and Cersei raises an eyebrow, puzzled, until she remembers her own orders to her guards. "I want to see him too."

"You will." Truth be told, she can't wait either. Over the last two months, she'd walked a precarious line when it had come to Loren and the idea of his father. She'd forbade the rest of the Lords as well as her house staff from mentioning the issue unless he'd brought it up himself – _he's too young to understand death yet and it's better to spare him the pain_, she'd reasoned and even the most stubborn among them had listened for once – and slowly, she'd readied him for the idea of accepting someone new. His memory isn't strong enough yet to truly provide any support for anything more than the shortest time spans possible and for once, it had worked out in her favour. He had been angry at first, demanding to see his father when no one had been able to answer his questions about where he had gone, but had gradually mellowed out as it had all started fading from view. The thought of it alone makes everything just a little sourer than it had been moments ago – she'd been the one to do this, to cause him all this pain, even if it had been for the best in the long run – and Jaime looks up in alarm when her silence stretches on, right before she sends a placating smile his way. "You've got plenty of time." That, at least, she'd managed to secure for them all. _Time_.

"I know." His eyes are closing on their own volition already – the travel must have been exhausting, as weeks upon weeks on horseback and ships tend to be, and she's rather exhausted as well, given the day's events and the worry that had plagued her ever since she'd made the choice to try. It all vanishes away between them now and Cersei lets her own eyes fall shut as well. The world can wait a little while longer.

For now, they sleep.

~.~

The island, Cersei finds as she's once again forced to roam around it later the same day, looks entirely different through Jaime's eyes. _New_, rather, and significantly more hostile than she'd come to see it.

"Do you always spend this much time without guards? Does _Loren_?"

"Not always, no." But the castle is safe; it's almost a home to her now. None of the people who have been allowed to stay would dare to lift a finger against any of them. She's made sure of that much. "He's safe no matter what. Do you think I would _ever_ leave him unprotected?"

"Of course not." A moment of hesitation, followed by Jaime's hand in hers, and Cersei comes to an abrupt stop. It should be such a simple, ordinary gesture and her heart aches at the fact that it's _not_. Her twin sighs; looks away, as if he suddenly can't stand to face her. "But you were _betrayed_. He was in danger by the time the possibility of him existed. I should have known. I wish I'd been here since the start."

She could have screamed. _Why weren't you?_

"Me too." It's as much of a truce as she's willing to settle for and her twin laps it up without hesitation. "Not much to be done about it now."

His smile, when it comes, is just as unsure. "We could always try again. You did mention he was sometimes lonely here—"

His voice dies mid-sentence when she wrenches her hand free as if his touch had burnt her. "No." It's just like Jaime, she can't help but think; to have yet to see the child they _do_ have and already be in the middle of planning one that he would find more convenient. She had known, ever since she'd realised that she'd be going back to the Westerlands with her brother by her side, that the subject of Loren's heritage would be a problem, but she'd never imagined the kind of solution that _he_ would have. "I can't."

"You're lying." It's the truth, but the audacity to be angry is startling all the same, coming from him.

"Perhaps I am." Lies are rather easy to admit to when they're protection more than anything else. "I don't _know_. I've gone to great lengths to make sure that I wouldn't find out." It's a careful dance, navigating her own body's whims to make it do what she wants, but she's been perfecting it for a lifetime. It had started the first time her septa had talked her through the changes in her body when she'd first bled and, despite her ardent hopes, it's yet to stop for good. "I don't plan on changing that now."

"Because it's me?"

"Because all you want to do is prove a point." He's never cared as much as she has and she hadn't expected him to – few people do and she's been told often enough that she's the exception rather than the rule – but it's a relief to voice it all the same. "It's not my fault I've had to lie to him about his own father – a father I've been hoping he'd _forget_ in the event that you ended up here." What she had truly done had been to forbid everyone from referring to his father in front of him as anything but the King. He'd been angry at first, furious, even, as children tend to be when something they love is taken away quite so abruptly, and it would only be harder once the memory fades away fully and he grows up alongside stories that never quite match up to the reality she's trying to build for him. "By law, he's as much a Greyjoy as he's a Lannister. If you had something to say about that, you should have made your intentions clear months ago. We can't keep starting anew over and over in the hopes that we'll eventually get _something_ right. Jaime, I _can't_."

"All right." The matter isn't closed, she can see that much, but he'll let it go for now. It's a small mercy, but she welcomes it, as easily as she does her brother's embrace a moment later, more tender than she'd expected. "All right. I just— People will ask questions, you know that, right? About him. About us. And I'll have to lie to him for the rest of our _lives_." It would be better if they're at least upfront about it. He doesn't say it, but it's what he wants. For once, it's something Cersei has no clue how to give him without sparking another endless conflict.

"People have been asking questions for years. We'll manage. He's safe here. Now that I'm the queen they chose themselves, it would be sacrilege to try and hurt him."

"That didn't seem to help when his father was king, did it? I keep telling you," he says as they get a move on again, tension dissipating in favour of fear. They're nearing the main entrance by now, all the way into the castle proper. She'd meant to make a short work of it at first, lest he works up the strength for a continuation of their argument earlier today (he hadn't seemed at all inclined to stop back then, not even with her reassurances), but lets herself linger instead as they near the King's apartments. Loren is, as far as she's been informed, in the gardens with one of his carers, and there's really no better time for her twin to see Pyke in full before they depart. The chances of them being left as alone as they are now for long are rather slim, too, and it's not an opportunity she wants to miss. "We can't stay here for long. Just because you had one man killed for treason doesn't mean you're safe. This isn't the Red Keep. Even back there, you had your personal guard and every other soldier in the city at your expense. I've yet to see _one_ of the members of your Queensguard."

"I wouldn't expect you to, given that I dismissed them for the day." For the week, as is the case with _Damion_ – he wouldn't have stood to see her drowned and she'd sent him back to the mainland instead in an effort to make sure that it would all be over by the time of his return.

"_Dismissed_ them?" He must have been terrified to hear the news of the attack to be this scandalised, she thinks, and then, with the slightest hint of guilt, _good_. "Can your new god bring you back from any death you decide to walk into?" He follows without question when she sinks into the rooms she'd had in mind, only chancing a fleeting look at the place as she leads him towards the balcony. "Just how safe do you think you are here?" When he doesn't receive a response, he finally deigns to take in his surroundings. "Where are we?"

"Right in the place of the attack." She sees him falter and, a moment later, make sense of the scene she's setting up. Everything had been cleaned up well enough for all of Pyke to try and pretend that nothing had ever happened, but she can still _see_. Anyone would if they had stared at the place as much as she had, Cersei's sure, but after all those weeks, the pink tint left behind from the blood stains appears in stark contrast to the grey stones under her feet; the entire room, although it still holds the relative chaos of a shared space, feeling colder and harsher than it ever had. She hadn't lit the fire since that night, afraid of what the heat would bring out, but she almost feels tempted to do it now, if only to make Jaime take in the scene in its entirety. "There was a guard at the door and three more at the main entrance. These are the King's chambers. No place in the castle is better protected. I was standing right here; he was where you are. By all means, it should have been him standing here now, and we should have both been unharmed. Had the guards been more effective, what do you think would have happened? Would the castle have been safe then?"

"Not when it's Euron Greyjoy we're talking about," Jaime scoffs, though she can see him falter. He's assessing everything in the room, applying the information that she'd given him as best as he can, and frowns at the result it gets him, but soldiers on regardless. "He couldn't have been safe no matter what. Once you anger the wrong person, and he must have, no guards can save you."

"He did anger the wrong person," she concedes. In front of her, Jaime seems to be putting the pieces together. Even with some of them still missing, the picture is clear – _none of this should have happened_. It only makes sense that no one else had caught on, with how much chaos she had made sure to cause in order to distract them all with the fine details, but it still pleases her; seeing the truth down on him. "Me. No one among his men would have ever dared turning on him outright." She gives it a moment to sink in; adds, elaborates when the confession seems to fly past him. "There was never an attack, Jaime."

If anything, he looks even more concerned now. "Yes, there was." His voice is slow, deliberate, as he reaches over the thin material of her dress, fingers ghosting over her stomach. "You were _bleeding_ just this morning—"

"I had to. Who would have believed it otherwise?" She'd been avoiding looking him in the eye, Cersei realises, but gathers the strength now that it's time to voice the truth. She hadn't had to, during her first and last confession – she'd been far too feverish from the wound and her Lord Commander had been the only one allowed in the room. He'd looked just like her twin to her pain-riddled mind, back then, and she must have tried to make her peace with him a thousand times before he'd managed to get her to sleep. "Strange enough that the prince was left unharmed. And he _was_ left unharmed, because he was never in danger. There was no treason, no danger, no guard that Lord Harlaw could have bribed into submission. It was always just me."

It's rare for Jaime to be left speechless and when he is, it's rarer still for it to be good news. When he gathers the strength once again, she's not quite sure what the case is this time. "You." It's not the accusation still ringing in her ears, but it's _close_. Cersei bites back her response. "_You_ killed him."

He hadn't been there to see, of course, so it's not as difficult to bear the disbelief as it might have been otherwise. "Him, and the guard at the door after that, once I'd managed to turn the blade on myself. I caught them both unprepared, I suppose." Her weapon had never been meant to do any _damage_. How could anyone have guessed? It had been all been overly messy and, to her relief, the next matter had needed a little more grace on her part. It had taken a while before she'd been well enough to go through with it. The shock of the wound – all that blood, the strain of pushing through the pain for the rest of the night and the better part of the next day, the fear pumping through her veins – had been more exhausting than she'd anticipated. "He was one of Harlaw's men, so I pinned it on him. He would have turned on me sooner or later either way. Everyone knew it. They're all so easy, those local words; it would have been a crime to waste such transparent hatred."

"And you still had no guarantee that it would have worked." She shakes her head wordlessly and Jaime's confusion only deepens further. It's almost as if he's seeing her for the first time, discovering things he's not sure how he's supposed to take. "_Why_?"

"It would have always happened, eventually." Nearly two years and all she'd done had been wait and talk and endure; two years tacked onto a lifetime of more of the same. "But the next raid— it would have taken us to Winterfell. The excuse was conquering the North, no matter how many times I argued that it would be pointless. It made no difference. It was always about you. I had to do something, despite the risk, despite what it could _do_. This is where it brought me. So tell me," and she hadn't meant to let her anger take the better of her now, but it's never done any good, trying to keep it behind closed doors, "how safe am I? I can't trust myself and I can't trust you; how safe could we possibly _be_?"

It would have hurt less if she'd slapped him, she knows, and the astonishment on her twin's face is a small reward for her mounting frustration. She hadn't given herself a _day_ before she'd let the threat of his death wreck her life to pieces. The thought of it ending up as nothing but fuel for more of his precious advice is nearly unbearable.

"You can." Jaime sounds shaken; his hand strays up to cup her face, his eyes earnest enough to make her eat up every word, regardless of how much of a lie it's proven to be. "You can always trust _me_."

"You left me to die. For months and months on end I had to listen to what _Ser Jaime _was up to now while I lost everything and built it all back from the start. You weren't here for any of it. How much of a fool do you take me for?"

"Do you think I was trying to save my own skin? You would have _died_ if I'd come near you." He closes his eyes with a sigh, as if resigning himself to the fact that he would only be giving her additional fodder once he speaks again. "The day I heard of the ambush on Dragonstone, I was ready to leave for King's Landing. I knew that the war was lost, and I wanted— I don't know what I wanted. To try and get to you before that, I suppose. I hadn't managed to get very far, plans-wise, before the future caught up with me. You wouldn't believe me if I tried to explain it, but I have it on good authority that staying away was the only solution for either of us. I don't know what you went through," he admits at last, thumb stroking over her cheek, doubtlessly in an effort to pacify the oncoming storm. It's more effective than she'd ever like to admit. "I should have been here. I _wanted_ to be here. It was only a matter of when and how. When Tyrion proposed a diplomatic mission, I left as soon as I could. Had I tried anything before that, it would have all been for nothing. If you trust me for nothing else, trust me on _this_."

It's difficult, trying to recall the details of her last day in the Red Keep and looking past the terror and destruction it had brought, but Cersei manages it all the same. It had always felt like such a close thing, her survival; a handful of moments later, she would have been gone. Whoever Jaime's _good_ _authority_ is, chances are, they'd been right.

It's nearly a mirror of his own gesture when she finally moves again, her fingers trailing up his chest and curling around the edge of his face until he leans into the caress. It's a better peace offering than her words could have ever managed. "That I can do. For now."

She stands frozen in place when he lets go of her and engulfs her in his arms instead, kissing her with enough ferocity to make her laugh against his lips, as surprised as she's delighted. It gives him enough of an opportunity to deepen it and he groans, exasperated, when she pulls away.

"_Not_ the place." The thought alone sends shivers down her spine, as if she hadn't crossed every line imaginable already. Jaime doesn't seem to mind an awful lot, even when she carefully tries to disentangle herself from his hold. "Let me go get Loren. We can talk more then."

"Talk about _what_? How to best hover at a respectful distance as I'm introduced to my own son?" He's being unnecessarily loud, but she's past trying to talk sense into him for it. If what he wants is to provoke her, she might as well rise to the bait, Cersei thinks.

"What would you have me do instead?"

"Marry me." It's such a quick response that it might have been lurking around ever since he'd met her this morning; ever since they'd drawn their first breath. "Here or at Casterly Rock; it doesn't matter. It can be in the name of any god you like, or none of them. I'm _tired_ of pretending. What's the point, if they all know already?"

"You don't have to prove anything to me," she begins, though it's half-hearted at best. It's the truth he's asking for, unfurled for everyone to see at long last, and she can count on the fingers of one hand the things she'd wanted as much as she craves this. Still, "If you're still as prone to changing your mind, I'd rather wait and see."

He doesn't seem to take it to heart. "There's not much you can do to change my mind."

"You were quite sure of yourself the last time." She's honest enough with herself to know how angry she makes people, if not enough to admit that it wouldn't stop her from giving it a try.

"The world was at stake _the last time_." He parrots, the pretence melting away as soon as he fixes his gaze on her. "I've had a long time to decide what I want. This is what we were _meant_ for. I could see it back at the Red Keep." Her coronation had been a shock, she recalls, but it had worn off remarkably quickly, because it's true – despite the war and the loss and the endless tension hanging over their heads, it had been the easiest time of her life since the day she'd set foot in the capital for the first time. "I can see it now, too."

"There are easier ways to do this." She has several, each shakier than the last, and he's right: it's exhausting to even make the effort once they've gone this far. "We have to think—"

"I don't want to think." He's still holding her close; close enough to overwhelm all her senses with his presence, and finally, finally, she's home. There's just one piece still missing and she intends to add it as soon as Jaime gets to take Loren in his arms. For that alone, it would be worth the risk. "I want you to say yes."

This time, she doesn't hesitate.

"Yes."


	12. Chapter 12

Their last few weeks on Pyke are nearly calm enough for Jaime to be suspicious. His arrival and the new needs arising around Cersei's voyage back to the Westerlands delay them for a while, but by the time they stand in the harbour, ready to set sail, the realisation that he might actually _miss_ it when they're gone is as startling as it's expected. For a time, the peace that had reigned over them had been like nothing either of them had ever known before and he might have regretted the change if it hadn't been for the better circumstances still waiting ahead.

It's a strange feeling, and rather unfamiliar – this sort of bottomless hope that the thought of the future brings him now. It's only fed further by the present and this time, the sight of Cersei's abomination of a flagship makes him smile despite his best efforts to appear firm. His sister's fleet is difficult to make sense of, with how chaotic it is, and much to his misfortune, the majority of them are far from mutes. Despite their reverence during the Kingsmoot, his sister's newly acquired vassals are loud, rowdy and far too difficult to control, considering how close they feel to their Queen. If he wants them to stay in line, he needs to be as comfortable as he can in his surroundings and the pressure of it is almost bigger than the strange giddiness that the position brings. In just a few weeks, the local nobility had started accepting them as an extension of one another, accepting his orders even if they hadn't particularly liked them on the assumption that twin had commanded it.

It stretches out to the rest of his family, too, and for the first time in ages, it's not only Tyrion that he's thinking of.

The image of said family is what alerts him to anything but his observation of the preparations. It's quite the image, too, in the way it makes his anxiety spike even further as his heart swells.

"Yes?" Loren stands before him, uncharacteristically quiet, and Jaime lowers himself to one knee so that they're at eye level. The boy had liked him enough to be as talkative as he is with the rest of the royal household and, as he and Cersei had both adamantly refused to utter the word 'Father' in front of him before they leave the Iron Islands, the only thing that makes him falter is the uncertainty of how to begin the conversation. "What is it, Loren?"

"We're leaving."

"Yes, we are." Hesitantly, he reaches out, stroking through his son's silky hair. It's a clumsy enough gesture that he regrets it almost immediately, but Loren laughs and comes closer, holding onto Jaime's arm to keep himself steady on the edge of the quay. "Do you want to?"

"I don't know." There's not much that he knows, truth be told, but Jaime waits patiently for him to figure it out anyway. "When are we coming back?"

"We're not." The boy's eyes grow wide. "But your mother and I will be with you the entire time. Everyone else, too." He scrambles for any reassurance he can afford to offer. "Everyone you know. And when we take our home back, you'll be the prince of that land too. Would you like that?"

He nods, eyes lighting up at the word, and Jaime has only just allowed himself a sigh of relief when he speaks again. "And you will be king."

"Will I?" The answer is yes, of course, though his sister hadn't yet talked him through the specifics of how exactly it's going to happen.

"Mama is the queen. Queens need kings." While that's not entirely true these days, Jaime supposes this can wait for a lesson later in life. "If she gets a king, he'll be my father."

_Don't let him see you freeze_. Cersei had warned him right before he'd met Loren for the first time about just how inquisitive he tended to be; how he had become alarmingly good at determining how people feel for him. It only makes sense that he's as advanced as he is – he'd been given all the attention that the world has to offer. _All he ever does is ask questions, most of them uncomfortable. Don't let it get to you_.

He can't resist.

"Is that right?"

"Yes." If he keeps being this insistent, this entire ordeal might end up easier to handle than Jaime had expected. "You can be the king, Mama says."

So his sister has done half the work for him already. Jaime lowers his voice. "But then I'd have to be your father." It comes out far too presumptuous and he's being a little too brave but, "How about that?"

"You can be," his son allows, his imperious tone so like his mother's that Jaime has to stifle his laughter lest he offends him. It's nearly unbelievable; the fact that she'd managed to hide him here in plain sight. He's every bit a Lannister, the two of them carefully shaped into a new life yet again. "If she says yes."

"She will," Jaime says, a little more convincing than he himself actually feels. It's helpful for him too, saying it out loud, and he takes Loren by the hand as they turn towards the flagship again. What little cargo they have left is making its way on board, finally, and he knows they're just about ready to leave. "She has to."

~.~

Sailing isn't for him, Jaime decides once the night descends over the fleet and the last lights of Pyke fade back into the horizon. It's always been bearable in small doses, but he'd been at sea for far too long now and yet another trip had been the last thing he'd needed. It doesn't help that everyone is so _loud_ and that, instead of trying to calm them down, Cersei had wandered out on the main deck quite a while ago and had yet to return. He'd been listening to her men's songs and drunken wagers for long enough now to know that she hadn't joined them and there's little to do but follow her out. He feels just about restless enough to crawl out of his skin and the breeze outside might do him some good.

It isn't too effective at first; not when it comes to improving his mood, though he does hear a few choice suggestions of what the crew should _do with a drunken sailor early in the morning_, soon followed by yet another toast to their new conquest and the Queen that had made it possible.

Half-savages; Cersei had warned him about that. What she'd do with them once they've arrived at the Rock is as much of a mystery as the rest of her plans are and Jaime's step quickens once he climbs out and away from their joint cabin.

His sister is a vision in the moonlight; nothing but a silhouette against the shimmering blackness stretching out in front of her as he approaches. Even after all those weeks – all those _years _– she takes his breath away and when he reaches her and pulls her into his arms, the relief it brings, just like always, is nearly too much to bear.

She doesn't flinch and it's the only encouragement he needs to press even closer, lips ghosting over hear ear. "Your men are insufferable," he informs her, casting a quick glance around them to ensure that they're still alone. "I heard at least two of them bet that they could drink you out of crown and country before we reach Lannisport. They seemed to think you'd be _proud_ of them for it."

"We'll reach Lannisport before first light. If they manage it by then, I'd be impressed." She twists around in his hold until they're face to face, back pressed against the wooden side of the ship. "But not particularly surprised."

They _are_ savages, Jaime realises, and she knows it well enough to be wary of them, but she still _likes_ them. Enjoys their company more than she had with anyone she'd ever met in the Red Keep, in the very least. The thought makes doubt swirl somewhere deep inside him, subtle and yet dangerous. "Did you like it? Living on the Iron Islands?" _Were you happy?_ is what he's really asking. If she'd noticed, his sister doesn't let it show.

"It could have been much worse. After the wedding, they came to accept me eventually. Both me and Loren; it had been so long since they'd had a royal heir to preach to that they _loved_ having him there. Their King's death was unsettling, I'm sure, but they'd got used to the sight of me already by then. They know the Lannisters well, with all our shared history," a fleeting smile, just wicked enough to be contagious, "and it took nothing but a push to accept me as queen once I promised them the mainland."

The mention of home hangs between them, heavy and loaded, before Cersei gathers the strength to breach the topic that he knows had plagued them both all night.

"The mainland accepting them is a different matter entirely, as you well know. The good people of the Westerlands might have the same trouble with accepting _me_ for a time, now that I've finally renounced their faith for good. It was a matter of time ever since the Sept of Baelor went down, but it's still a relief to have it out in the open." She takes a deep breath before finally taking the plunge. "I'm not going to appoint a High Septon."

It's not precisely the line of thought Jaime had expected and, well, "I don't think anyone would expect you to."

"_No_, but they'll still want their faith to be tied to their leaders, or it won't be a particularly convincing claim on my part. I've had well over a year to decide whether I want to return to Casterly Rock at all; if we're doing this, it'll have to last." When Jaime remains silent, waiting for her to take this wherever it is that she actually wants it, Cersei braves another look up at him. "I'll need you to represent the Faith of the Seven."

It starts to dawn on him, distantly, what she's planning. It's just like his sister – bold, arrogant and still indisputably following any law that they've ever deemed inconvenient. "All right," he says, still cautious. "And you'll represent the Drowned God, I assume."

It's just a little disbelieving, despite everything she'd done this far, but Cersei takes it in stride. "In a way, yes. When I was wed on the Iron Islands, I hadn't been baptised into their faith just yet, but Euron Greyjoy still put a crown on my head. It's meant to be a display of the sharing of power more than anything else, for my men's benefit more than for his own. A crown is a promise and someone they know – someone of their own faith, a leader they trust – handing it over to me was the only guarantee they needed. I'll crown you King of the Iron Islands and everyone who's sworn allegiance to me after I was drowned will have to answer to you. I'm your insurance in front of them and, in turn, you can be mine in front of the Westerlands."

So this is it; how she'd seen it happening. Their _wedding_. This one impossible thing that had always stood just outside their reach, landing right into his arms with one quick sweep of Cersei's machinations as if it's the simplest answer in the world. And it _is_, suddenly, as simple as breathing and he could _kiss_ her, so he does.

This is simple too, now. Cersei's arms wrap around him without a moment of hesitation and Jaime hauls her closer, pressing them both harder against the side of the ship before he'd managed to lose his balance. Her tongue darts over his lips and as soon as he gives in, more than happy to grant her the lead she seems to always need, one of his sister's hands tangles into his hair, body arching up against his. It's a familiar thing, the frantic desire for them to melt into one another that often plagues him, and Jaime's too lost in her to care for the rest of the world, but it's her safety that still comes to mind first when he absently starts to bunch up the fabric of her skirts in his hand. It's muscle memory more than anything else and it's nearly beyond his control, but, "Here?"

He needs to know; needs to hear her say it. This is her home now, no matter how much she speaks of their return to the Rock – this ship and the freedom that it grants her to be everywhere she wants to be and drift away into the sea to her heart's content – and he needs to know that it can be his too, for as long as they're here. Home is wherever his sister is and he's never wanted the sentiment returned quite this desperately.

The answer, to his relief, appears to be an easy one and Cersei nods, forehead pressed against his, the jewels of her eyes catching fire under the dim light coming from the inside of her ship.

"Here."

~.~

The world around them is still greyish and foggy around the edges when the armada reaches Lannisport, the morning air sending a shiver down Jaime's spine as he watches all of Cersei's possessions being unloaded and transferred to the carriages that would take them all to the Rock. His sister had already found her way to a horse, steering Loren towards a litter as gently as possible while still maintaining her position. His sister looks uncomfortable enough that he spares a moment to wonder whether she's quite as self-assured as she'd like everyone to think, and her expression morphs into something far more defensive once she notices his worry.

"Travel by sea doesn't always agree with me," she announces to no one in particular, gripping the reins just a little tighter as Jaime mounts on his own saddle, still eyeing her warily. The sea hadn't seemed to bother her the night before, but he's not about to point it out. "It would have been safer to go straight home, I know," she adds before he'd managed to address what he knows is on both their minds, "but the people need to see us. Let them know who's fought for them and _won_."

It's the last warning he gets before the city gates swing open in front of them and the momentum carries them forward. Jaime takes a moment to compose himself – he'd spent enough time by Cersei's side to know what sort of picture they're supposed to make when it comes to the smallfolk and by now, it's almost a second nature – and follows her lead.

He hadn't been sure what would welcome them. The local Lords – the majority of them, anyway – had _wanted_ them here; passionately enough to turn on Tyrion, at least. None of them had actually come home for too many years to count and a part of him had expected the place to be unrecognisable, all while he'd been fervently hoping to find a cure for the sense of displacement that had haunted everyone in their family – barring their father, perhaps; he'd thrived in the wasp nest of King's Landing – all through their years in the capital. It's only when he sees the people lining the sides of the road that he releases the breath stuck in his throat – the faces are new, that much is true, but it hardly matters when they're still quite so familiar.

Cersei takes her first step into the city, hesitant to none but him, and the hush that rolls over the crowd is enough to make him lower his guard by a fraction. It's not tension. It's not fear, either. It's curiosity and trepidation mixed with reverence; it's a sort of warmth that the Red Keep had not once offered them.

It's _home_.

"Cersei," he calls out, loud enough to reach her and her alone. She turns, her inquisitive eyes zeroing in on him instead of her new subjects, and he grins back without an ounce of care for the careful resolve she doubtlessly wishes they'd both display. "They know."

Everyone knows, now – she'd fought for this and she'd won. What's more important, Jaime thinks as they press forward, every step taking them closer and closer to the throne she means to claim, is that this time, Cersei knows it too.

~.~

Casterly Rock is bursting with life the day of their join coronation and, with the distinct lack of his sister by his side and the sudden reappearance of his brother, the entire ordeal is starting to feel just a bit overwhelming.

"The Starks?" If he'd still had it in him to be surprised by any political move made in the past few months, Jaime might have felt a little more alarmed by the direwolf stretched over the snow-white sails. "Who invited _them_?"

"The new Queen of the Westerlands, I assume. Or is it Queen of the Iron Islands now? I could never keep track." Tyrion doesn't sound anywhere near as bitter as he'd expected him to and it's enough to fuel the tentative hope that perhaps, just this once, the world might not need to fall apart around them right after it's all settled into place. "No matter; she'll be queen of both once she puts a crown on your head. It's only courteous to invite her northern neighbours. The soon-to-be yet again King in the North rid her of her only threat for the Throne, after all. Not _this_ throne, but," his brother shrugs, anxious gaze sweeping the premises from their vantage point of view, "that's not what mattered the most in the end, I suppose. You're both right where you wanted to be."

There's little Jaime can say to that without sounding as smug as he feels. "Yes, we are. As soon as I pledge my allegiance to her and vice versa, this should all be settled."

No more disputes over power, no more wars, no more neurotic exchanges over ravens or squabbling over every inch of land. At least, not for now. He's not naive enough to think it's going to last forever, but a lifetime will do. A year, even. He wouldn't complain if he gets several months, truly, if it means having a semblance of the life he thinks he's owed by now. Over the days since their arrival and the weeks of preparations that had followed, it had become altogether too easy to imagine this becoming a habit – discussing the next best move they have with his sister and her hastily put together round table of advisers; coaxing Loren into yet more exercises of trust until he finally dares to say the word 'father' without being afraid of who would hear; spending his nights by Cersei's side without having to feel like a criminal in his own home. It's a refreshing change from the past two decades and it's had a pleasant effect on them both; almost pleasant enough for him to think that something must imminently go wrong.

But no, they're past that now. King's Landing and everything that had happened there is nothing but a memory now and there's no reason to let it infect their present. The bits and pieces of it that he keeps close to his heart are too many to count, but they all pale in front of what they'd carved out for themselves this time.

It's freedom, plain and simple. For all their attempts to acquire just that before, their lives had always been tangled in something too big for them to handle. Even when Cersei had claimed the Iron Throne for her own once and for all, it had been a constant struggle to remain where they had been without toppling under the weight of all the mistakes that had led them there. In comparison to that, Jaime can't bring himself to feel regret for what little blood had been spilled for their benefit on this final attempt.

Perhaps Cersei had been wrong, after all. Trying until they get _something_ right had got them here; with just a few more already calculated pushes, it might be the last blank slate they'd ever need.

"You could just call it a marriage, you know," Tyrion offers, a little more clipped than before. It's difficult to say what precisely has irritated him this time, but Jaime has his guesses. Their sister's newest success in snaking her way out of consequences, giddy with a twisted sort of pride as it makes him, had never been one of their brother's favourite qualities about her. "Seems like less of a mouthful."

"I _can't_, actually. Damion made sure to specifically avoid that word in any announcement he's made, both here and in Essos. He also made sure to warn _me_ about avoiding it about four thousand times." If he were a suspicious man, Jaime would have thought that the pretty badge that Cersei had pinned over his chest had gone to their cousin's head. As it is, he's _just_ suspicious enough to watch him closely and reclaiming his own position as Lord Commander in the meantime. Whether he can be both that and King of the Westerlands _and_ the Iron Islands is yet to be determined, but there's no doubt that Cersei can manage it – it's precisely the kind of loophole she'd fabricate in an instant if asked to. "It's a coronation, for me and for her. We'll share the power and each other's claim on the land and say our vows in front of all of our gods and our collective people."

"Anything in the name of duty, I'm sure." Tyrion pats him on the back, more patronising than it's ever been encouraging, and pointedly avoids his brother's scowl. "I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind. I'd like to have a word with our sweet sister."

It's a rather foreboding prospect; enough so for Jaime to stand on edge, but it doesn't last – it's _Tyrion_ and if the past few years had proven something, it's that their brother doesn't have it in him to truly hurt either of them – and any worry that might have still lingered evaporates under the sun streaming through the stained glass of Casterly Rock's main hall as he steps in a little while later, as ready as he's ever going to be for a coronation.

It's packed. That should be the first thing on his mind, Jaime knows, the detail that Cersei had likely agonised over for days on end as she'd made the arrangements for the guests, and he _does_ realise that they're being watched, but the sight of his sister, already waiting by their thrones all the way up the stairs, his crown clutched in her hands like it's a lifeline, makes it all fade to the back of his mind; white noise to the radiant light pouring all over him as he makes his way up to her in the silence of the hall. She's a blaze of red and gold, unmoving as a statue, but Jaime knows her too well to believe the pretence of it – under the cool grace of her presence, there's a raging pit of emotion begging to burst out; an impatience that he'd been watching build up for an eternity by now.

He had dreamt of this once. More than once, even – in the fog that shrouds the majority of his childhood memories, he'd wed her on these stairs a thousand times before. It's different when it's earned and by the time he reaches her, everything that had happened to get them here has become as irrelevant as the crowd watching them. Then again, it's not much of a surprise – _everything_ is irrelevant when compared to this and it's only when Cersei's hand settles over his, warm and firm and grounding, that he allows himself to revel in it.

She understands, of course. She always had – they'd been here before, all the way back to when they'd been too young to know they'd ever been meant to exist apart from one another. It's a lesson they'd never quite managed to learn, in the end.

Jaime rushes through his oaths as quickly as protocol will allow and lowers his head when Cersei reaches up to crown him. It's a heavy thing, the sort of jewellery the Kings of the Rock had once worn, if not as complex as the one she'd chosen for herself. He only sees it in full once he'd perched it on her golden hair, and it's certainly a sight – her driftwood crown, half-melted into one of their ancestors's tiaras, the gold dripping in a halo of frozen trickles where it had burnt into the wood. It's the best representation of the kingdoms she's inheriting and it fits her much better than the last one had, he thinks – it's imposing and loud and forcibly held together through the power of her will alone. It's _her_, more than the jagged silver lonely ornament from before had ever been.

"Father, Smith, Warrior," Cersei prompts him and he snaps out of his stupor, though there's nothing for him to add. These are _her_ oaths, once he'd sworn allegiance to the Iron Islands and her new faith. "Mother, Maiden, Crone. Stranger." For the first time in their lives, it sounds nearly like a prayer once she gets to the end. It's a long line of promises she has no way of making sure she'd keep after that and Jaime waits for her to be done before launching into his own part.

"In the name of the Seven," he stresses, should there be any room for argument from anyone listening, "do you swear to uphold your vows to the people of this realm?"

She'd made more than enough of them – about peace and wealth and a look into a brighter future. This time around, she might just mean it, now that the choice is hers to make. There's a world of difference between clinging to a crown for your life and accepting it with open arms and a weight seems to lift off of both their shoulders once the difference makes itself known.

"I swear it." It rings loud and clear and Cersei's lips curl into a smile bright enough to light up the hall. It's a challenge and a promise all wrapped into one and he almost regrets having to share it with their subjects once she turns to address them all. "From this day until the end of my days."

She doesn't end it with a kiss – they couldn't possibly, not right now – but the triumph that reigns over them is very nearly enough to make up for it.

~.~

It's almost twilight by the time Jaime catches his sister alone again. She's on one of the countless balconies, as always, as detached from her own celebration as she could possibly be. The setting sun is bathing her in even more scarlet than her dress already offers and she almost seems alight by the time he approaches, shaking her head when he offers her a goblet to match his own.

"I'd rather not. We've got a long night ahead of us."

"I'd hope so; it's only traditional." He knows what she means and their definition of what a long night should entail might vary deeply, but she's listening and for now, he can work with that. Jaime sets his own wine to the side, crowding her in against the edge and, when she slips away, follows her over to the large table with every bit of Westeros carved into it. She doesn't glance back at the map as she lifts herself to sit on the edge and it's all too easy to take advantage of that once he settles between her legs. "Any plans in particular? Another conquest or four?" He nods to the space behind her and narrows his eyes at the surprise that stares back at him when Cersei looks up, suspiciously earnest. "You've been studying that."

"I've been studying it all my life. No," she takes mercy of him when Jaime's hold on her tightens with a question he doesn't dare ask. "_No_. I kept wondering for the longest time— what I'd feel once we came here. Would it be home at all, after over twenty years? Damion kept asking, back before you came to the Iron Islands – once we take the Westerlands, what then? It terrified me to think about it; what it would be like to have what I want. And now—"

The silence feels deafening, suddenly, with nothing but the waves slamming against the rocks a hundred feet down below to break it. "And now?"

"And now we're here. It's all I could have asked for. I don't know what we'll do next, if this is what you're asking, but it doesn't _matter_. It's still terrifying." The ruefulness of her expression is only belied by the happiness that overwhelms it and Jaime presses in closer, breathing in the essence of her as he basks in the carelessness that they share for once. "And it's everything I've ever wanted. This is all I know. If it's enough for you, it's enough for me."

"It is." He has no answer for her that she hasn't heard a hundred times until now, but Cersei doesn't seem to mind as she falls back against the surface of the table with a laugh when he leans over her, hair fanning over the far reaches of Westeros like rays of sunlight as she sets her crown aside. "It always has been, you know that."

"I do." It's the only confession they'd ever needed, truth be told. Cersei braces one hand on the ridge that the Eyrie makes under her palm, the wildfire in her eyes meeting its flame once they're eye to eye, and when Jaime pushes her backward with another kiss and climbs up right along with her, he sees her fingers splaying over the Reach as she keeps them both afloat. "I know."


End file.
